


Dear Diary

by Frayach



Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: Could Be Canon, Cutting, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gap Filler, M/M, Mental Instability, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Season/Series 02, Season/Series 03, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-19
Updated: 2015-06-21
Packaged: 2018-03-24 16:56:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 21,284
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3776281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Frayach/pseuds/Frayach
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Justin was viciously bashed and severely injured. First his life was in danger and now his sanity is. He feels like he can trust nothing and no one.  He's drowning in grief over his lost future and besieged by nightmares. He needs someone to talk to - someone with nothing to lose if he tells the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth. Somehow someway, he'll find his way back to Brian, but no journey that's worth taking follows a straight path.  Canon, but happy canon!  Yay!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Popsicle Stick Confessions

**Author's Note:**

> This story is about the year and a half following Justin's bashing in which I try to make sense of Justin's decision to leave Brian for Ethan and then leave Ethan and return to Brian. It's a combination of diary entries, unsent letters and therapy sessions. Sometimes traditional narrative forms just don't cut it.
> 
> This story is dedicated to so many people that I can't even begin to list all of their names. If you've commented on anything I've written in the past couple of months, you're one of them. As always, an extra loud shout-out to Deb.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Justin meets his new therapist and starts writing a diary . . . . on Popsicle sticks.

 

“Hello, Justin, come on in." 

"Hi."

"I’m Rochelle Bernard. You may call me Rochelle or Ms. Bernard, whichever you feel most comfortable with. It’s nice to meet you.”

“You, too . . . I guess. I mean, I still don't really see why I need a psychiatrist. It's not like I'm crazy or something.” 

“You're not 'crazy,' but you have gone through a very traumatic experience. I was assigned to be your therapist by your treating physician, Dr. Dubois."

"You mean 'green bean'?"

"Why do you call him 'green bean'?"

"All of us call him that - it's because of those Godawful green shirts he wears. He must have a whole closet full of them."

"He certainly does seem to like the color green, doesn't he?"

"He likes it too much. Maybe he's the one who needs a psychiatrist instead of me."

"I'm actually not a psychiatrist, which, among other things, means I can't prescribe medication, but you've been assigned a psychiatrist for that should you wish to consider it."

"So if you're not a shrink, what are you? And, more to the point, why do I need you?" 

"I am a licensed clinical psychologist with training in various forms of behavioral health therapies . . ." 

"'Behavioral therapies?' Is that, like, a professional term for helping people get their poop in a pile?"

"You could think of it that way. You wouldn't be far off the mark."

"I already have my poop in a pile . . . where should I sit?

"Anywhere you feel comfortable. You may sit on the sofa or either chair. You can even sit on the floor if you like. There are pillows over there in the corner next to the yoga ball."

“Is this chair okay?”

“Any chair you wish, although I’m curious as to why you chose that particular spot. Do you have a particular reason?”

“I don’t want to have my back to the door.”

“Would that bother you?”

“Yeah, I guess. I never really thought about it, but yeah. If someone's going to walk in the room, I want to see them.”

“Is your discomfort about having your back to the door something new?”

“Maybe. I don’t know. I just don't like people sneaking up on me. Especially some psychopath with a baseball bat.”

“Why don’t we start with you telling me a little about yourself, so that we can get to know each other.”

“About myself? What do you want to know?”

“Anything. Just start anywhere. There’s no right or wrong way. Just go with the flow.”

“Well, for a starter, I’m a fucking invalid . . . sorry, I meant a ‘dang’ invalid.”

“I don’t mind if you swear. Sometimes strong words are the only words that can express the way you feel about something.”

“Okay, you asked for it then. Every other word out of my mouth is going to be ‘fuck this’ and ‘fuck that.’ Oh, and ‘asshole.’ I’ll be using that one a lot too.”

“Let’s start there. Who are the ‘assholes’ in your life?”

“Obviously, the biggest, hugest Grand Poohbah of Assholeness is the asshole who did this to me.”

“Did what to you?”

“Did _this_. All of this. If it wasn't for Hobbs, I wouldn’t be in a fucking hospital getting my head shrunk and having to relearn how to hold a fucking crayon. No offense, or anything. I know shrinking heads is just your job and all.”

“No offense taken. So, this ‘asshole’ – do you want to talk about him and what he did to you?”

"No! God, no. I’ve already talked the whole thing to death. I told the detective about it at least three times and then there were those reporters. I’m sick of talking about Hobbs and getting hit in the fucking head. _Sick of it!_ ”

“Okay. What _do_ you want to talk about?”

“Actually nothing. Again, no offense. I just really don’t feel like talking.”

“May I ask why?”

“I don’t know. I guess I just don’t have anything to say.”

“But you’re angry – I can see it in your expression and hear it in your voice.”

“Yeah, I’m angry. Of course, I’m angry. Who wouldn’t be? I’ve been in the fucking hospital for almost two and a half months.”

“But you’re getting out soon.”

“Not soon enough.”

“Do you have any idea what you’re going to do when you get out?”

“I don’t know. Whatever, I guess. See my friend Daphne. Go to MacDonald’s. That kind of thing.”

“Tell me about Daphne.”

“She’s my best friend. We’ve been best friends since we were in grade school. Her family lived pretty close to mine, so we hung-out a lot as kids.”

“I assume she knows about what happened to you?”

“She was there. At least, for part of it. She was my prom date . . . well, maybe I should say my ‘beard.’ I couldn't go with a real date. You know I’m gay, right?”

“Yes, that’s in the report Dr. DuBois gave me.”

“He wrote a report? What else is in it? I have a right to know, don't I?”

“Of course. Here, you can read it for yourself. There will be no secrets between us. I want you to trust me.”

 __ **MEMORANDUM**  
**To:** Rochelle Bernard, MS, LPC, LCSW  
**From:** Dr. Mark DuBois, MD  
**Re:** Justin Taylor’s Biographical and Medical Report  
**Date:** June 26, 2001 

_Justin is an 18 year-old white male who identifies as homosexual. He was raised in an upper middle-class household and attended Fox Chapel Presbyterian Church until he was 16. His parents are in the process of divorcing. Upon release from the hospital, Justin will be residing with his mother and ten year-old sister, Molly, at 24 Bell Acres Village, Fox Chapel, Pittsburgh. His mother is studying to become a licensed real estate agent, and his father is the owner and CEO of Taylor Electronics, Inc. His grandparents on his mother’s side are deceased, and his grandparents from his father’s side reside in Tucson, Arizona. Both Justin and his mother, Jennifer Taylor, report that Justin is estranged from his father, Craig Taylor. There are currently no financial, insurance or housing concerns._

_Justin received his education from two elite private schools. From grades K-6, he attended Sewickley Academy, and for grades 7-12, he attended St. James’ Academy from which he graduated with high honors. During the summer between his junior and senior years, Justin worked as a valet at the Edgewood Country Club. Most recently, he worked busing tables at the Liberty Diner in downtown while residing for several months with a family friend. The reason Justin was not living at home at the time of the assault is that his father had become abusive after learning that Justin is gay._

 _Justin was accepted to the Pittsburgh Institute of Fine Arts where he was to start his freshman year on 10/3/01. As of the drafting of this report, it is not clear whether he will be able to attend given the disability in his right hand and wrist caused by the traumatic brain injury he suffered on 5/11/01. Justin has been doing exceptionally well in physical therapy and shown great improvement, but he is still having difficulty with basic motor skills, which may impair his ability to fulfill his courses’ requirements. Other than the traumatic brain injury and accompanying psychiatric disorders (see below), Justin is in excellent health. However, he reports having occasionally smoked marijuana and taken Ecstasy. He also reports drinking alcohol on a weekly basis but denies he has a drinking problem. He reports never having used narcotics, addictive stimulants or hallucinogens in any form._

_The brain injury Justin survived was severe and life-threatening. He was in a coma for several weeks. Upon waking, he presented with migraines, convulsions, slurred speech, memory loss and confusion. Other than the memory loss, the other symptoms disappeared within a few days. He reports that he no longer has migraines, but his headaches are frequent and occasionally debilitating. It is unclear how far back in time his memory loss extends, and the general opinion of his treating physicians is that we may never know._

_Justin is bright, creative, polite and cooperative with staff, but he is also often agitated. He has violent outbursts that are difficult for him to control and manage and sometimes require staff-intervention and restraint. He also suffers from nightmares and acute anxiety that often results in panic attacks that require staff attention. After interviewing Justin for at least an hour on five separate occasions, the staff psychiatrist, Dr. Richard Balter, diagnosed him in compliance with the DSM IV with posttraumatic stress syndrome, panic disorder, generalized anxiety disorder, depersonalization/derealization disorder, and depressive disorder with mixed features._

_Justin has been advised that medication could help him sleep and lessen his anxiety, agitation and depression, but he is adamant that he will not take any. It should be noted for the record, however, that Justin’s mother feels strongly that her son should be treated with medication. This is something you might want to explore with him._

_Justin appears to have several strong, supportive relationships. Despite his strained relationship with his father, Justin is close with his mother and sister. He also has numerous friends who have visited him regularly, including a woman by the name of Debbie Novotny who he refers to as his “second mom.” He has not been contacted or harassed by Christopher Hobbs, the perpetrator of the assault that resulted in his injury, or any of Mr. Hobbs’ family or friends. Police interviewed Justin and another man who witnessed the attack; those interviews resulted in Mr. Hobbs’ arrest and charges of Assault in the First Degree and Reckless Endangerment. Mr. Hobbs has pled not guilty. A trial has not yet been scheduled._

_Justin is expected to recover at least 75 percent of his strength and coordination in his hand and wrist. However, he will likely continue to suffer severe headaches and/or migraines for the foreseeable future. I have advised Justin against taking narcotic painkillers out of a concern over their addictive properties. Justin has expressed agreement with this advice._

_If you should have any further questions or concerns, please do not hesitate to contact me. Justin is a fine young man, and I wish him a swift and complete recovery._

“What the hell is ‘depersonalization disorder’?”

“It’s when someone feels detached from themselves and the world around them. My patients usually describe it as living in a foggy dream or watching themselves like an observer. The world feels unreal and remote. Is that how you feel sometimes?”

“Sometimes. Other times the world’s _too_ real, and I can’t escape it. It’s like being on fire. The rest of the time . . . yeah, ‘foggy dream’ is a good description – a damp, cold foggy dream.”

“So you’re either on fire or damp and cold? Is there ever an in-between?”

“No. Not really.”

“It sounds very uncomfortable.”

“You’re telling me.”

“So, we started to talk about what you’ll do when you get out of the hospital, and you said you were going to hang-out with Daphne and go to MacDonald’s.”

*snorts*

“Anything else?”

“Now that you mention it, I’m going to find my so-called ‘boyfriend’ and throttle him. And then I’m going to beg him to fuck me. Or maybe it’ll be the other way around. He’ll fuck me and _then_ I’ll throttle him. I’ll be like a female praying mantis. Have you heard about them? After they mate with a male, they twist his head off and suck out his brains.”

“I have heard that . . .”

“Or I could be a male quoll. Have you ever heard of ‘quolls’? They kinda look like giant squirrels with lots of really sharp teeth. The males can only release a little bit of sperm per ejaculation, so they have to fuck the females for literally _hours_ , but not in a good way. They’re mean-ass little fuckers. Sometimes they fuck the females so savagely and for so long, they end of killing them and then devour their dead bodies. That's what I'm going to do with Brian. I’m going to fuck him for hours until he dies and then eat him. As in _literally_ eat him, as in Hannibal Lecter in _Silence of the Lambs_. What’s that great line? ‘I ate his liver with fava beans and a nice Chianti.’ Except I don’t like fava beans. I’ll just eat his liver raw and wash it down with a glass of his whiskey.”

“Goodness. You sound very angry at this man. What is his name?”

“Brian. Brian Kinney.”

“Is he a friend of yours?”

“Yeah, right. I guess I would say he was my ‘boyfriend,’ but he doesn’t do boyfriends, so I guess he’s just a fuck buddy . . . a _former_ fuck buddy.”

“Is that why you’re angry at him – because he treated you like a sex object instead of a real person?”

"Whatever. I got over it.”

“Then why are you so angry at him?”

“Because . . . . Because I’ve been in this fucking place _for weeks_ , and he hasn’t come to visit me even _once_! No visits, no phone calls. No nothing. Hell, it’s his friends who visit me, not him. He doesn’t give a shit! He never has and he never will. God, I wish I could _hate_ him, but I can’t! I just fucking _can’t_!"

“Justin, you seem very agitated. Why don’t you sit back down, take a few deep breaths, and we’ll talk about something less upsetting. How does that sound?”

“It sounds fucking patronizing. Jesus! I _hate_ this!”

“Will you sit down? You don’t have to stop being angry; I just would like you to sit down, okay?”

“There. I’m sitting.”

“Thank you.”

“Are you going to write this all down to show Dr. Green Bean and give him an excuse to keep me here for another month?”

“No. These notes are for me. Our conversation is completely confidential. The only reasons I might have to disclose something you say to me is if you tell me you’re going to hurt yourself or someone else.”

“I guess that means you’re going to have to report that I said I want to eat Brian’s liver like a rabid quoll.”

“I’m operating under the assumption that you were speaking figuratively.”

*smiles*

“We’ll have to end things here. Our hour’s up. I have your next appointment scheduled for the day after tomorrow. I checked the times of your physical therapy sessions and scheduled our appointment in between them. How does eleven sound?”

“Whatever. It’s all the same to me. Just don’t make me miss a meal – they’re so nutritious and delicious.”

“I’ll do my best.”

“You’re very kind.”

“In the meantime, between now and our next meeting, I want you to start a diary . . .”

“Oh God, please no! No diaries. No making shit out of Popsicle sticks . . .”

“I promise I won’t ask you to make something out of Popsicle sticks, but I think that keeping a diary would be . . . .”

“Wait! Hold on! I just had a brilliant idea. How about I write a diary on Popsicle sticks? We could kill two birds with one stone. The arts and crafts lady will piss herself with excitement. I’ve been holding out on her fucking Popsicle sticks for weeks. I was fine with finger paints. I was even fine with the gluing-noodles-on-poster-board thing, but she crossed the line with the Popsicle sticks.”

“If you want to write your diary on Popsicle sticks, I would be fine with that.”

“I’m totally doing it.”

“I look forward to discussing what you wrote at our next meeting.”

“After I’m done with Popsicle sticks, I’m going to make a diary out of noodles.”

“I can see you weren’t accepted at PIFA for no reason.”

“Yeah, well, you may be psyched about noodles and finger paints and shit, but I doubt PIFA will be.

“I’ll see you on Thursday. Have a good rest of the day, Justin. It was a pleasure meeting you.”

“Yeah. Whatever. Bye"

 

* * * * * * * * * * *

There’s not much room on these things . . . .  
. . . . so don’t expect deep thoughts.

As predicted, arts&crafts lady pissed herself with . . . .  
. . . . excitement when I asked for P sticks.

I’m writing this with my gimp hand. It’s really . . .  
. . . hard, which probably means it’s good for me.

I hate that my hand is fucked . . .  
. . . it means my whole life is fucked.

I had everything & now I have nothing . . .  
. . . sometimes I wish Hobbs had killed me.

. . . or that Brian had left me to die . . .  
. . . yet another reason to hate his guts.

I had these dreams about being an artist . . .  
. . . & they just seem stupid and childish now.

I can’t go home. My mom doesn’t get it . . .  
. . . no one gets it. No one will ever get it.

. . . Brian might’ve gotten it but he doesn’t . . .  
. . . give a shit.

Why can’t he fucking visit me? . . .  
. . . why is that so fucking hard? WHY???

I feel like my life’s over & now I’m a walking dead . . .  
. . . person while everyone else goes on with their lives.

I hate this diary shit. I thought it was going to be . . .  
. . . funny if I wrote it on P sticks but it’s not. It’s still depressing.

What did you think I was going to write? “Omg! I’m like so cured . . .  
. . . and shit!” This is just as big a load of crap as everything else.

I cried myself to sleep last night & then I had this . . .  
. . . really weird dream. It was like I was looking through the window . . .

. . . at myself – like watching myself sleep. It was really vivid & . . .  
. . . then I thought I heard Brian’s voice. It felt SO REAL!

I’d do ANYTHING if I could just see him again & talk . . .  
. . . to him. I don’t care if it’s more than that. I just miss . . .

. . . him SO FUCKING MUCH!! I need him . . .  
. . . he’s the only person who understands me. 

Why is he doing this to me?? What did I do that was . . .  
. . . so bad that I deserve him treating me like this?

Daph says he came to the prom & that we danced & . . .  
. . . that he kissed me right there in front of everyone.

I would cut my arm off if I could just remember . . .  
. . . she said we were amazing together.

All I can think is that something must’ve happened . . .  
. . . afterward between dancing and Hobbs bashing me

I must’ve done something stupid that made him . . .  
. . . hate me. I probably said something stupid like . . .

. . . “I love you.” He would’ve f-ing HATED that! . . .  
. . . that must’ve been it because what else could it be?

Maybe I said he had a tiny dick. LOL!

Alright, I’m done with this diary/P stick BS . . .  
. . . I’m going to make some more noodle art now coz . . .

. . . I am fucking PICASSO! 


	2. Sent, Unsent and Unsendable Letters

“Good morning, Justin. Come on in. How are you today?”

“Tired.”

“I’m not surprised. Dr. DuBois says you’ve been working very hard on your physical therapy.”

“At least for once a rumor’s true.”

“So, here we are. This is our last appointment while you’re in the hospital. How does it feel to know you’re being released on Saturday?”

“Honestly?”

“Of course. We discussed the fact that you can be completely candid with me three appointments ago when we reviewed your first diary entry.”

“If you can call writing shit on Popsicle sticks a ‘diary entry.’”

“It served its purpose though, didn’t it? I feel that we had a very productive conversation. Please continue – and, yes, I want you to be honest. Therapy is useless when a patient hides things, especially painful things that are hard to talk about.”

“Okay, you want honest? I’m afraid. There, I said it.”

“Afraid of getting out of the hospital?”

*stares at floor and nods*

“Are you afraid you’ll be attacked again?”

“No . . . well, maybe now that I think about it, but there’s something else.”

“Brian?”

“He’s part of it.”

“Go on.”

“I’m afraid . . . I'm afraid of being alone. I mean, it’s not like I love it here, but I’m with people like me all day – people with serious brain trauma who are relearning how to do basic stuff. I’m actually . . . I’m actually kind of lucky. I’ve met a lot of people in a lot worse shape than I am. We all get each other. No one has to explain anything or talk constantly about their injuries and how they got them.”

“So, you’re worried that people won’t understand what you’re going through?”

“Worse than ‘worried.’ I’m actively _afraid_. What am I going to do when people stare at me? What am I going to say when people ask me what happened? Not even my own mother is going to be able to understand me. I’m going to be a total fucking freak out there!”

“You’re going to _feel_ that way, but just because you feel like a freak doesn’t mean you _are_ a freak.”

“Thank you, Dr. Phil.”

“I know it sounds like something out of a cheesy self-help book, but it’s true. Try to stop thinking that you _are_ something and remind yourself that what you think you are is only a story that you’re telling yourself. Remember what we discussed last time?”

“That I’m not an invalid even though I might feel like one. Whatever.”

“The same holds true in this case – you are not a freak even though you might feel like one. You also don’t know for sure that people won’t understand what you’re going through.”

“Bull shit! Okay, I’ll give you points for the ‘I’m-a-freak’ thing, but you are _not_ going to convince me that people will understand what it’s like to have someone hate you so _fucking_ much that they want you dead.”

“But you said at our last appointment that Brian would understand.”

*silence*

“Has something happened to change your mind?”

“What? Other than him still refusing to visit me? No, nothing’s happened.”

“Do you still think he’d understand?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I think he would.”

“Has he ever been assaulted by someone?”

“I don’t think so . . . well, he mentioned a couple times that his father used to hit him or something, but that’s not what I mean. Brian would understand what it’s like to be hated because you’re gay. He knows that there are people out there who want to kill you or throw you in jail. He understands that being gay is like having to fight a constant war against the rest of the world.”

“Plus, he was there when you were assaulted.”

“Yeah. That too. God, I _have_ to see him! There’s _no one_ I can talk to! I’m so fucking scared that I’m going to get out of the hospital and people like my mom are going to be all worried and hovering and shit, and I’m going to totally blow-up at them because they Just. Won’t. Get. It!”

“I’m glad you raised your concerns, Justin. This might be a good time to tell you that your mother wrote to me asking for help with your return home.”

“She did? What are you going to tell her? Do you _have_ to respond? I mean, I’m an adult. She doesn’t have the right to my private records.”

“Yes, that’s true. I won’t tell her anything unless you want me to, and if you do want me to tell her something, we can discuss what that might be.”

“Okay. So what did she write?”

“Here. I printed out her email to me. You may read it.”

 _Dear Ms. Bernard_ ,

_I’m Justin Taylor’s mother. He’s coming home in a few days, and I would like to speak with you about what to expect. I understand that he’s had some rather disturbing outbursts, and I want to know how to handle them. I love him very much. This has been a horrible time for all of us. I just want to help as much as I can and not make anything worse by accident._

_There’s something you need to know. I’m not sure if he’s told you, but he has (or had, I have no idea what their current status is) a much older male lover. His name is Brian Kinney. Justin met him late last September. He’s an advertising executive. He’s also a terrible influence. He drinks heavily and takes drugs. His lifestyle is extremely reckless – from what I’ve heard, he has several sexual encounters with anonymous men every week. He introduced Justin to gay club life. He buys him alcohol and has probably given him who-knows what kinds of drugs. He also has introduced Justin to some sexual practices that frankly terrify me. I thought it was bad enough that he’d have oral and anal sex with a teenaged boy, but I have reason to believe he’s into S &M. He forced Justin to get his nipple pierced, and I’ve seen marks on Justin’s wrists that look to me like they were made from having his wrists tied to something._

_As if all of this wasn’t bad enough, Brian is the reason Justin got bashed. He showed up at Justin’s prom and danced with him in front of his classmates, several of whom he already knew to have made violent threats against Justin because of Justin’s sexuality. I believe that their dancing and kissing was the reason that Justin was attacked. If Brian had not come to Justin’s prom (and why a 30 year-old man would come to a high school prom is beyond me), my son would be happy and healthy and on his way to being a freshman in college in a couple months._

_I do not want Brian in Justin’s life again. I believe that he is dangerous to Justin’s safety and wellbeing. I’ve talked to police about getting a restraining order, but only Justin could do that, and I know he won’t. Despite everything, he still cares for Brian and makes excuses for him and his behavior. I desperately need your help. Please convince Justin that Brian put his life in danger with his bad judgment and will do so again. Please, I’m begging you. I’m so scared and worried that I can’t sleep at night._

_Sincerely,  
Jennifer Taylor ___

“What a load of fucking BULLSHIT!! She doesn’t know one fucking thing about Brian! He’s always been the bad guy! It’s like I’m some fucking lap dog unable to make my own fucking decisions in life. It was _me_ who got my nipple pierced! Brian didn’t even like it! God-fucking-dammit! I _knew_ this was going to happen! This is _exactly_ why I told you I’m dreading leaving the hospital! My mom just doesn’t fucking _get it!_

“Justin, please sit down.”

“I am _not_ going to fucking sit down! She knows _nothing_ about Brian! Hell, she knows nothing about _me_ anymore! FUCK! Now, I'm crying like a baby. Great. Just fucking great."

“Are you going to be okay? Would you like to end our session early?”

“I ca . . . can’t. I’m being released bef . . . before I can see you again. We need to talk about this shit before I go home.”

“I agree. Justin, would you like me to respond to her?”

“Can you hand me that box of Kleenex? Thanks. Yeah, I would. I would like you to reply to her.”

“What would you like me to tell her?”

“To stay the fuck out of my fucking life!! God, what am I going to do? I can’t go home. Isn’t there some place else I can go? Like a halfway house or something?”

“I don’t know, but I could have your case manager look into it. Justin, please sit down. You’re getting worked up, and I don’t want you to have a full-on panic attack. Please sit down.”

"I . . . I . . . Shit!"

“Are you going to be okay? Can we talk about this?”

"Shit . . . I can't breathe . . . oh my God . . . what the fuck am I going to do? . . . I . . . I can't live like this . . ."

“Slow, deep breaths. Inhale and count to three; exhale and count to three. Again. There you go. Close your eyes if you need to. Think of a safe, peaceful place. There, that’s it. Tell me about your peaceful place.”

*takes long, deep breath* “I’m in . . . it’s winter and I’m in the mountains on a ski trail.”

“You like to ski?”

“I board.”

“Is there anyone with you?”

“No. I’m alone. I don’t like people. I like to be alone.”

“I didn’t know that about you.”

“Well, now you do. Phew, I can breathe again. It’s late afternoon and sunny. It snowed recently, so there’s snow on the trees. The trail conditions are awesome – definitely worth the insane price of the ticket.”

“Do you get to go snowboarding often?”

“I used to. Before everything went to shit with my family. We used to go to Killington every February.”

“Killington’s in Vermont?”

“Yeah.”

“Sounds like fun.”

“Yeah, it was.”

“When was the last time you went?”

“Not this past winter, but the one before.”

“Do you go boarding locally?”

“Yeah. Daph and I used to go to Canaan Valley in West Virginia a lot. Sometimes we went to Boyce, but it kind of sucks. The trails are really easy, and it’s always crowded. Canaan is awesome, though.”

“When was the last time you went boarding with Daphne?”

“I don’t know. I can't remember. A long time ago. Or at least it seems that way now.”

“Why don’t you go anymore?”

*shrugs* “Money. Time. . . .”

“Brian?”

*sighs* “Yeah and Brian.”

“Does Brian snowboard?”

“No, but I think he skis.”

“You think?”

“Yeah, I _think_. His best friend, Michael, told me he sometimes takes clients skiing.”

“But you two have never gone together.”

“Nope.”

“Why not?”

“Just haven’t.”

“Justin, do you want to talk about your mom’s email?”

“Yeah. Okay. What are you going to tell her?”

“Only what you would like me to.”

“Just tell her to leave me alone.”

“Okay. But that sounds unnecessarily combative. What if I tell her to ‘give you space’?”

“Yeah. Okay. That works.”

“Here, while I’ve got you in my office, why don’t I draft an email so you can read it before I send it?”

“Okay.”

“Do you want me to address her concerns about Brian?”

“No. It’s none of her business. Just tell her that it was NOT Brian’s fault that I got bashed.”

“Okay, here’s a draft email. Here, take a look at it and tell me what you think.”

_Dear Jennifer,_

_I am writing this email in Justin’s presence. He is my patient and as such he has control over what information I can convey to you. Everything he tells me is completely confidential. I know that’s hard for you to hear. Being a concerned mother, you would like to know as much about Justin’s situation as possible. After reading your email and discussing it with me, Justin wishes me to convey to you that the best thing you can do to help him is to give him the time and space to work through things on his own. He’s a strong, bright, capable young man and able to make intelligent and voluntary decisions about his life, including whether he would like to see Brian again. I know you are worried for his welfare, but Justin is eighteen and thus an adult. I would advise you to let him find his own way and intervene in his recovery process as little as possible. Don’t forget that I’m a qualified professional who will be meeting Justin for an hour twice a week. He will not be without someone to confide in and guide him. For the sake of maintaining the integrity and trust in my relationship with Justin, I would respectfully request that you talk to him directly about your concerns instead of coming to me._

_Best wishes,  
Rochelle Bernard_

“How’s that?”

“Fine.”

“Should I send it?”

“Yeah. Thanks.”

“You’re welcome. Justin, before we end today’s discussion, I would like to briefly discuss Brian and the fact that you have not been honest with me about him.”

*belligerent silence*

“For me to be of help to you, trust must flow both ways. Justin, you told me that Brian is a classmate and that you two lost your virginity together. Either you or your mom is not being forthright.”

*more silence*

“You don’t have to talk about Brian, but I would encourage you to do so. He’s almost been the sole focus of your first three diary entries. He’s obviously very important to you and your recovery.”

“My mom’s right about his age and his job, but that’s pretty much it.”

“How about you straighten the record for me?”

“It’s true – Brian just turned 30, but he has the emotional age of a teenager, so I didn’t _entirely_ lie.”

“Go on.”

“I don’t really know where to start . . .”

“Well, since it’s no longer true that you met him at St. James, I think that would be a good place to begin.”

“I told my mom one night that I was going to spend the night at Daphne’s but instead I went to Liberty Avenue.”

“Why?”

“To get laid. Are you shocked?”

“No. Lots of seventeen year-olds are curious about sex.”

“Butt sex?”

“Perhaps. I don’t see why anal sex should be considered much different from vaginal sex except that it involves another man – and in this case a much older man.”

“If you’re suggesting he took advantage of me, then I’ll assure you that he didn’t. I made up my own mind to go home with him.”

“So, he asked you to come to his place? Did you know that he wanted to have a sexual encounter?”

“Hell, yes! I was _hoping_ he would. God, you should see him. He’s absolutely, ridiculously _beautiful_.”

“Describe him for me.”

“Well, he’s over six feet, dark brown hair, hazel eyes, gorgeous body, perfect cock . . .”

“There are a lot of tall brunets with hazel eyes and gorgeous bodies out there – something else must’ve have drawn you to him and caused you to make the risky choice of going home to have sex with a stranger.”

“He’s just . . . shit, I can’t explain it. I saw it right away, the second we locked eyes. It was love at first sight. I know that’s a cliché, but it’s true. He’s kind of . . . well, he can be kind of cold and distant, but he’s got this really expressive face and expressive eyes. He doesn’t know it, but he wears his heart on his sleeve. I can read him like a book . . . or at least I _thought_ I could.”

“But now?”

“But now who the fuck knows? I never in a million years thought he wouldn’t visit me after I almost _died_ , for fuck sake! I mean he’s a total dickhead, but I’m still in shock that he did this to me – that he completely abandoned me. Shit! Here I go crying again. God, I love him SO FUCKING MUCH! And he’s been nothing but an asshole to me.”

“It sounds like he’s broken your heart.”

“He has.”

“Has he ever . . . let me make sure I phrase this correctly . . . has he ever forced you to do something that you didn’t want to do, sexually or otherwise?”

“No. He’s actually really good about that – I mean, I won’t pretend that we haven’t done some pretty hardcore stuff, but he’s always talked to me about it beforehand and made sure I was okay with everything while we were doing it. Some things he outright refused to do to me – like for instance, he wouldn’t let me sound, and he wouldn’t fist me.”

“Excuse my ignorance – what do you mean?”

“He didn’t let me stick a rod in my dick, and he refused to stick his hand up my ass. He said those things were too ‘advanced.’”

“Did you agree?”

“Yeah. I agreed. But other stuff was fine. The S&M stuff was pretty vanilla compared to what I’ve seen in porn movies. He just tied me up and spanked me, but not hard.”

“So, you enjoyed having sex with him.”

“Very _very_ much. He’s, like, the god of sex.”

“Did he give you drugs and alcohol?”

“Yes, but nothing too hardcore. He didn’t force them on me – I wanted to do it. My mom’s totally overreacting, and as for ‘gay club life,’ yeah, we go out dancing and sometimes have sex in the backroom, but who cares? Everyone does it.”

“Does he have sex with other men?”

*shrugs*

“Does that bother you?”

“No, of course not.”

*silence*

“Okay, it bothers me. But it’s his right. It’s not like we’re some straight couple.”

*nods*

“He isn’t all bad like my mom says.”

“From what I know of you, I don’t believe you’d be with a man you believed was abusing you emotionally or physically.”

“You’re right. Christ, I wish my mom saw that too!”

“You’re her child. It can be hard for parents to accept the fact that their children are having sexual experiences – especially with much older partners.”

“Too fucking bad.”

“I’m just explaining why your mom feels so protective of you.”

“Like I said, what Brian and I do is none of her business.”

“Justin, I hate to interrupt our conversation, but our session is at an end. I won’t be seeing you again until after your release from the hospital, but please call me in the meantime if you feel in crisis – especially if you think you might hurt yourself. Okay?”

“Fine. Okay. But it’s not going to happen. I’m not some scared little faggot.”

“I’d like you to continue writing in your diary, but this time, I’d like you to use it to write two letters – one to Brian and one to your mom.”

“No way. There’s no fucking way that I’m sending a letter to Brian.”

“You won’t send these letters – they’re not really letters. They’re an exercise in helping you express yourself.”

“Uhm. Okay. Whatever. It sounds kind of stupid.”

“Everything I ask you to do sounds stupid to you, but yet you do them anyway, and we end up having a good conversation about them, yes?”

“Sure. If you say so.”

“I say so. Take care of yourself Justin and good luck with your transition. I will see you next Tuesday.”

“Thanks.” *walks to door but then pauses* “I know I’m really angry at Brian, but I don’t want you to think he’s a bad person or anything. It’s just . . . well, he’s just Brian. I don’t know how else to explain him.”

“As long as it’s an explanation and not an excuse, that’s fine.”

“I don’t need to make excuses for him. He makes enough of them for himself. See ya.”

"Good-bye."

 

* * * * * * * * * *

 

_Dear Mom,_

_I love you, and I know you love me, but you HAVE to let me go. You did before the bashing, and everything was fine, right? I studied and ended up ninth in my class. I got a 1400 on my SATs. I got into Dartmouth, Brown and PIFA. I got to school every day on time. I made smart choices – I always practiced safe sex, ate well (not that that was hard given I was living with Deb), and I never drove drunk or with anyone else who was drunk (including Brian – btw, Brian never drives when he’s drunk or high). As for drugs, all I tried was pot and Ecstasy and only in the presence of others. I’m not stupid, mom._

_And Brian isn’t evil. I know you think he’s the devil incarnate or something, but he isn’t. He’s taken care of me, and yeah (apparently – I don’t remember it) he did show up at my prom, but he did it to surprise me and make me happy. How did he know Hobbs was a psychopath who’d go after me with a baseball bat?_

_I love you, mom, but I will DIE if I have to live at home with you hovering over me like a helicopter. I will go even more insane than I already am. I’m scared that if I go home and if I can’t see Brian, I might kill myself. I don’t want to die – I really don’t. I’ve been fighting like HELL to stay alive and get my life back on track. I don’t want to end it, but I’m afraid I might if you stop me from seeing Brian. You have NO idea how much I love him and how much I need him. He’s everything to me. I feel like I don’t have a thought that doesn’t include him in some way. My life was grey and hazy before he came along and painted it in technicolor rainbow hues. I’m sorry if reading that hurts you. I know you and dad did everything you could to make me happy, but it was like I was born to have Brian in my life – to love him and make love with him. I’m sorry if that freaks you out. It’s just the truth._

_This is hard for me to say (and my therapist is going to read this and throw a spaz), but I’ve been cutting myself. Nothing really serious – just enough to make the pain go away, and not just mental pain. I hurt all the time. I get these horrible headaches, and my hand hurts like you wouldn’t believe. Sometimes I feel like God is torturing me and I’m going to break. When I cut myself, everything else goes away. It’s just me and my blood. No Hobbs. No baseball bats. No gimp hand. No nightmares. No dad. No _you_. It’s just me, and everyone and everything else fades away. I think maybe that’s what being dead is like. Peace and fucking quiet. But all the same, it scares the hell out of me. I hate the sight of blood. Remember that time the nurse had to chase me around the room just to give me a thumb prick? I don’t want to be doing this, but I don’t know what else to do. Everything just hurts  so much._

_I know I’ve hurt you and dad and Molly. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to. But I couldn’t live a lie. I’m gay. I’m always going to be gay whether you and dad like it or not. It’s just a fact. And it’s also a fact that Brian is going to be in my life. My place is beside him. He’s my soul mate. Every breath I take is for him. He is a gift from God. If me being with him means that I have to break ties with you, then I will do it. I love you, mom, but I love Brian more. I always will. Nothing and no one can ever change that. If you want me in your life, then you're going to have to accept that fact._

_Love,  
Justin_

_Dear Sweetheart,_

_I hate you, Brian. I mean it. I really REALLY hate you! From the day we first met, you’ve treated me like dog shit you tried to scrape off the bottom of your shoe. Do you remember that you yelled at me for coming on your duvet? What a dick! Who does that? You knew I was young. I’d warned you I couldn’t hold back. I tried to get you to stop jerking me off. So guess whose fault it was? YOURS, ASSHOLE! Then in the morning you couldn’t remember my name despite having taken my virginity. I still remember how sick I felt – literally sick to my stomach, Brian. Finally your coup de grace was telling me I could see you in my fucking dreams – as though I’d even dream about you at all, you arrogant prick._

_After that, you kicked me out of your loft more times than I can count. True, only one was a direct command, but did you really think I was going to hang around watching you fuck that guy from New Orleans? If you didn’t want me, then why the fuck did you keep letting me back into your life? Do you just want someone to kick around? Does that make you feel like a man?_

_You’re a nasty (and not just in a good way), mean-spirited, selfish bastard. You tolerate (barely) having me around for three reasons: my ass, my cooking and my willingness to babysit. If you’re nice, it’s because you’ve figured out there’s something in it for you. You’re a cunty fag, Brian. That’s right. You heard me. A cunty fucking faggot. You put your quote-unquote ‘best friend’ down all the time. You mock Ted – I don’t think I’ve heard you say one, single nice thing to him. You talk to Mel like she’s not even worth the breath for forming words. And, on top of all of that, you treat your employees like shit and take advantage of your power over them to fuck them on your desk._

_AND NOW YOU BROKE MY FUCKING HEART, YOU FUCKING ASSHOLE! I’VE BEEN WAITING FOR YOU EVERY DAY. I LITERALLY PLEADED WITH GOD THAT YOU’D WALK THROUGH THE DOOR. YOU NEVER DID. YOU COULDN’T BE FUCKING BOTHERED. YEAH, MICHAEL TOLD ME YOU WERE UPSET, BUT THAT’S CALLED FUCKING ‘HEARSAY,’ BRIAN! I NEEDED PROOF THAT YOU CARED WHETHER I FUCKING LIVED OR DIED. YOU WERE TOO FUCKING BUSY AT THE BATHS TO PULL YOUR DICK OUT OF SOME GUY’S MOUTH TO VISIT ME. I HAVE NEVER FELT SO USED AND VIOLATED IN MY LIFE! I WILL NEVER FORGIVE YOU. NEVER!!!!_

_Love and Forever Yours,  
Justin_


	3. Justin (literally) Tries His Hand at Iambic Pentameter

 

A Poem For Rochelle

From the hospital I did go  
Nearly crippled by a vicious blow  
Then my mother took me to  
A condo that is far too new

When Daphne I did see  
I knew that soon I'd quickly flee  
From my mother’s cul-de-sac  
Daph told me she would have my back

The car ride seemed much too long  
But I am never ever wrong  
About which bright and busy streets  
I used to tread with fearless feet 

When my best friend dropped me off  
I went straight to Brian’s loft  
When I saw he was not there  
I knew exactly where to fare

Brian saw me in Woody’s bar  
But merely watched me from afar  
He clearly didn’t want to see  
The “creepy stalker” who is me

Michael had to urge him on  
Otherwise he would’ve gone  
There was abject terror in his eyes  
A look that he could not disguise

He approached me with a cautious tread  
He’d seen me bashed right on the head  
I’d thought for weeks he didn’t care  
Now I saw the guilt he couldn’t bear

He held me close in his strong arms  
So I would not come to harm  
We got into his waiting Jeep  
The looks he gave me were long and deep

He took my hand in quiet calm  
And didn’t take me home to mom  
Because he knows that my true home  
Is beside him and I'll never roam

He poured a glass of whiskey gold  
Which his hand could barely hold  
His body shook like an autumn leaf  
Because of his wrong belief

That he could’ve stopped a mad attack  
But that is simply _not_ a fact  
The truth is he couldn't have foreseen  
That a human being could be so mean

I wanted to make him smile  
A goal for which I’d crawl a mile  
At himself he said he's mad  
It made me very _very_ sad

I can’t recall the grim attack  
But he cannot forget the fact  
That I'd very nearly died  
While all he could do was wait and cry

He sounded so profoundly lost  
He said he couldn’t bear the cost  
Of what he said he did to me  
When he held me close for all to see

“Christ!” he did loudly yell  
He’s living in a fiery hell  
Of guilt and fear and shame  
And other feelings he cannot name

I held his face between my hands  
Through my fingers he’ll not slip like sand  
I told him it was not his fault  
And from his running he should halt

I heard the pain he can't disguise  
And watched the tears fill up his eyes  
It was then that I did see  
Why he couldn’t visit me

I forgave him with a tender kiss  
So my love he could not miss  
I am his and he his mine  
Forever till the end of time

Now in my diary you can see  
How much Brian means to me  
Do not ever tell me how  
He is bad for me right now

And, mom, leave us alone  
Or never again will I come home  
You have to respect that I strongly feel  
That only Brian can help me heal

 


	4. Justin's Funeral

*Voicemail Message* 

_Hi, Rochelle . . . it’s Justin. I’m not coming to our appointment . . . I don’t know if I’ll ever come to another. It was nice working with you. You know, I wasn’t sure at first . . . I mean, about therapy and stuff . . . but you really helped me. By the way, I threw away the diary I was keeping. I didn’t want my mom to find it . . . anyway, I guess that’s all. I don’t know what else to say except thanks . . . and good-bye._

*Voicemail Message* 

_Justin, this is Rochelle. Call me **immediately**. I’m deeply concerned about you._

*Voicemail Message* 

_Ms. Bernard? This is Jennifer Taylor. Please call me back as soon as you can. Justin . . . Justin is . . . oh, God, I can’t leave this on a recording. Please call me. I don’t know what to do . . . I’m afraid for his life. Very afraid!_

*Voicemail Message* 

_Jennifer, this is Rochelle. I’m also concerned about Justin. Please tell him that if he doesn’t come see me that I might feel that I need to treat this as an emergency situation and proceed accordingly._

* * * * * * * * *

“Justin. Hello. Please come in. I’m very happy to see you. I’ve been concerned about you . . .”

“Well, you needn’t have been.”

“Frankly, the voice message you left me caused me to think that you might be considering harming yourself.”

*silence*

“Is it true?”

*more silence*

“Let’s start with how you’re feeling this morning.”

“Fine.”

“Pardon my directness, but you don’t seem ‘fine’ to me.”

“I don’t know what else to say. I’m fine, okay? I told you that in my voice message; I don’t need to have my head shrunk anymore.”

“Justin, has something happened between our last session and now?”

*silence*

“Again, pardon my directness, but you seem deeply depressed to me. Do you think you are depressed?”

*shrugs*

“Your mom left a rather panicked voice message on my . . .”

“Jesus fucking Christ!!! What’s she going to do next?! Put me in a padded room and lock the door?!”

“You sound angry.”

“Is that all? ‘Angry’? I’m fucking _furious_! I literally _hate_ my mom right now! She’s ruining my life! Fuck . . . I can’t breathe . . . this is my third panic attack today, and it’s only eleven!”

“It would help if you sit down and start taking some deep, slow breaths.”

*pants and gasps and wheezes*

*phone rings and goes to voice mail*

_Rochelle? This is Jennifer Taylor . . . is Justin there? Please say he’s there . . . God, I can’t believe this is happening . . . I don’t know what to do . . . he’s out of control . . . I’m so scared . . . should I call the police and have him committed . . . ?? . . .”_

“Jesus Christ, answer the fucking phone!”

“Hello, Jennifer. This is Rochelle. Justin is here with me in my office. I have the phone set on speaker mode, so that he can listen to our conversation.”

“He’s there? Oh, thank _God_! Justin! How could you do this to me _again_? You know how upset I was on Monday evening when you simply disappeared, no note, no nothing. And don’t think I didn’t know where you’d gone . . .”

“Shut up, mom! Just shut the fuck up!”

“Justin! I’m your mother. You can’t talk to you that way. And you can’t just leave the house without telling me!”

“Did you hear that, Rochelle? I’m a fucking prisoner!”

“You’re NOT a prisoner, Justin. You can come and go as you please, but I told you I want to know where, with whom, and when you’ll be back, and I **DON’T** want you going to Brian’s!”

“You don’t have to worry about that anymore, do you? Not after you told him to stay away from me and never see me again! And, yeah, you’re right. I _did_ go to Brian’s on Monday, but don’t worry – he didn’t fuck your little baby boy! The only ‘fucking’ that’s happened since I got bashed is _you_ fucking me up the ass!”

“Justin!!”

“Justin, I think this might not be the best time for this particular discussion . . .”

“It’s _never_ going to be the ‘best time’ because I’m never speaking to her again! Hear that, mom?!”

“Rochelle, please talk some sense . . .”

“Jennifer, my job is not to ‘talk sense’ into Justin. My job is to listen to him and guide him and help him make good, sound choices. Speaking of which . . . Justin? I don’t think the three of us should be talking on speaker phone. I’d rather do it in person. Would you like your mom to . . . ?”

“NO!!!”

“Justin!”

“No, okay?! No!!”

“Jennifer, I’m sorry, but having a discussion with you is not something that Justin wishes to do at this time. I will talk to him about the possibility of the three of us meeting in the future, but in the meantime, I think we should end this call.”

“Justin . . . Justin, sweetheart. At least tell me when you’ll be home . . .”

“When I fucking feel like it!”

“Justin . . . !”

“Bye, mom.”

“Good-bye, Jennifer.”

“God, that _sucked_!!”

“I’m inclined to agree with you. I regret having facilitated that encounter. I don’t think anything productive came out of it.”

“Except now you know why I’m so depressed.”

“Your mom told you that you can’t see Brian anymore?”

“Worse than that. She told _Brian_ , himself. Behind my fucking back. So, now he won’t see me. He actually yelled at me and told me to go away when I went to see him Monday night! You have _no_ idea how hard it was for me to get on a bus and walk several blocks to his place only to have him fucking throw me out!”

“That must’ve been very painful.”

“‘Painful' doesn’t even come close to describing how fucking _awful_ it was.”

“So, you haven’t had a chance to talk to him about all of this?”

“I called him, and he hung up on me. I emailed him, and he never responded – he’s totally vanished from my life without even a good-bye. It’s like the whole not-visiting-me-in-the-hospital thing all over again. God! My life is so fucking _fucked_!”

“Are you having any suicidal thoughts?”

*silence*

“Justin?”

“So what if I am?”

“Are they vague thoughts, or have you thought up a plan?”

*silence*

“Justin, I don’t know how to read your silence, and that’s a problem because . . .”

“Yes, okay? I _have_ been thinking about killed myself. Wouldn’t anyone in my fucking situation? My hand is fucked, so I can’t do the thing I love most, and I can’t be with the person I love most. What’s worth living for anymore?”

“Have you made any plans or started acting on them?”

*shrugs* 

“Justin?”

“I don’t know. Vague stuff, I guess. I think about what would be the most painless way to die. I mean, how long does it take to die if you hang yourself? And don’t you shit yourself? I don’t want to be found with shitty pants. Slitting my wrists isn’t an option – too much blood, and blood freaks me out. Pills aren’t really the greatest idea. What if I threw up? Actually . . . actually, now that I’m thinking about it, maybe I should shoot myself in the head. Put a bullet in my temple so it could do what Hobbs’ bat couldn’t.”

“Justin, many people suffering from PTSD think about suicide, so the fact that you are is not, in and of itself, a reason to recommend hospitalization. However, your thoughts seem to have progressed to the point that I’m concerned . . .”

“Listen, Rochelle. I am _not_ going back to another fucking hospital – especially a fucking _mental_ hospital. No way. Not happening. At least not voluntarily. You’ll have to put a fucking strait jacket on me, and inject me full of . . . of whatever the fuck people get injected with that make them shuffle around and drool and shit.”

“No one would inject you with anything.”

“I don’t care. I don’t care if there are hot nurses giving foot massages and handing out drinks with little umbrellas in them. I’m NOT going! And if we talk about this any longer, I’m going to get up and walk out, and you’re never going to see me again!”

“Okay. I respect that. Please sit down. We won’t talk about hospitalization anymore, but I _do_ want to see you every other day for the next couple of weeks.”

“Sure. Why not? I’m bored fucking shitless at home.”

“In the meantime . . .”

“Oh God. Not another diary assignment. By the way, I didn’t throw my diary away. But I will before I kill myself because I don’t want anyone . . . opps. No more suicide talk. Okay, so what’s the assignment?”

“I want you to describe your funeral.”

“ _What?_ ”

“And I want you to focus specifically on what people will be doing. Don’t focus on decorations or what readings you’d choose. I want you to imagine the people who love you mourning your death.”

“Why does this sound like a guilt trip?”

“Because it is.”

“And it’s super creepy.”

“So is talking about shooting yourself in the head.”

“Touche. But what if I think the people in my life deserve to have me die and feel like shit?”

“I doubt that when you actually start writing that you’ll want to imagine them grieve.”

“Shouldn’t I not kill myself because I have a long life ahead of me and bullshit like that?”

“Of course. But sometimes people in despair can’t see a bright future for themselves, but they _can_ think of their loved ones and want to spare them the pain of losing them.”

“If they’d even cared.”

“Do you really believe they wouldn’t?”

*silence*

“I didn’t think so. Any questions?”

*silence*

“Okay, then let’s plan on seeing each other again on . . .”

“Can I call you if . . . if something happens?”

“Of course.”

“I didn’t tell you, but I . . . I hit my mom.”

“I see.”

“Not hard, and she wasn’t hurt, but I never want to do it again. I know I’m angry at her, but I don’t want to hurt her.”

“I know that.”

“So, can I call you if things get out of hand again?”

“Yes. Absolutely. I’ll give you my personal cell phone number. Here you go.”

“Thank you.”

“I’ll see you the day after tomorrow. Don’t forget your assignment.”

“I won’t. I just wish I could draw a picture to accompany it.”

“Someday you can.”

“Right. Whatever. See ya.” 

 

* * * * * * * *

 

Dear Diary, 

Rochelle’s latest bat-poop idea is that I describe my own funeral. That’s pretty morbid if you ask me, but then again, so is contemplating suicide. Okay, here we go. So, I’ve kicked the bucket and am dead as a doornail (thank you, Charles Dickens, for that analogy, even though I have no idea what a “doornail” is). Let’s say I jumped off a bridge and drowned in the Alleghany or something equally dramatic. Actually, I couldn’t have an open-casket funeral if I drowned because I’d be all bloated and bluish, and I probably will have been nibbled on by fish. I don’t want Brian’s last memory of me to be my blue, bloated, nibbled-on face. Okay, let’s say I jump in front of a train . . . no wait, same problem . . . Hhhhmmmmm. Once you consider the aesthetics of suicide, your choices for how to off yourself decrease significantly. I guess I’ll just leave out the little details of how I slipped this mortal coil (thank you, William S., for that metaphor, but like a “doornail,” I have no freakin’ idea what a “mortal coil” is. It sounds like an evil Slinky).

Alright, Rochelle, I’m sorry. I know this is not what you had in mind for this assignment, but it made me laugh at myself, which can’t be a bad thing, right? Actually, I think it’s a very healthy thing. Brian should really try it sometime. It would be good for him.

Okay, here I go:

The funeral is taking place in my parents’ church because they’d insist on it, and no one would have the say-so to argue with them. Especially Brian, who’d probably had to slip in a side door or risk being turned away entirely. It’s actually kind of a nice place. I used to like going there as a kid – well, until I turned fourteen and realized what a load of shit religion is. It’s painted white – no creepy, goth interior. There’s a green carpet and mahogany pews. It’s really big. I doubt my funeral would pack the place.

When I was young (and hadn’t yet figured out the whole gay thing) I used to imagine myself and Daph getting married in Fox Chapel Church. I guess it says something pretty depressing about my life that I’m now imagining my funeral. Anyway, there are candles and lilies and shit. Hopefully the minister who was there when I used to go to church is still in the job – he’s actually a pretty cool guy. He didn’t even molest me. I wouldn’t mind him reading a bunch of God shit about me. Daphne will sing something even though she doesn’t have that great a voice. I’d like Brian to do a reading, but what are the chances of _that_ happening? If he did read something, though, I’d want it to be really schmoopy and sappy. I’m imagining it right now. He looks totally hot in that black Armani suit he’s wearing.

Alright, Rochelle. I’m done being a smartass because, even though the poem I can imagine him reading is silly, the image of him standing there definitely isn’t. He’d be so lost. So confused. So alone. He’s the strongest person I’ve ever met, but I don’t know . . . I honestly don’t know if he could survive the guilt. He already feels guilty enough about the bashing. I can see him choking up in front of everyone, which is a really big deal because Brian is very stoic and careful to hide his emotions (even though he’s shit at it). But I think he might cry. Of all the people in my life (except maybe Daphne), I think my suicide would hit Brian the hardest because, at the end of the day, I know he loves me. He’ll probably never say it, but I know he does. I know he’s probably hurting right now – maybe not as much as I am, but I do think he wants to be with me if for no other reason than to help me get my strength back. Brian’s a big believer in strength. He wants that for me. Maybe he’s even as angry at my mom as I am for keeping him away from me.

So, yeah, I’m watching Brian cry, and that really freaks me out. I never want to make him cry. I love him. Killing myself would be like kicking him in the cosmic balls. I’d have to haunt him, so I could tell him I’m sorry. I’d have to write “it’s not your fault” in the condensation on his mirror while he’s in the shower. But he won’t believe me even if I’m a ghost. The guilt will torture him for the rest of his life. Fuck. It might even _shorten_ his life. He already plans on dying young as it is. Goddamn it! I’m more likely to be attending his funeral someday than he’s likely to attend mine.

You’ll be pleased to know that I’m crying now. You’re not only a therapist, you’re a sadist!

Now, I’m imagining Daphne. She’s bawling her eyes out. This is only in my head, but I want to hug her so badly. She’s my best friend. Arguably my parents deserve to have me kill myself, but she doesn’t. My suicide would scar her forever. She’d probably need to come see you. Or maybe she’d want to join me. I know she loves me more than a friend, and I think I’ve known it for a long time even before we slept together. I just didn’t want to admit it because it changes our friendship a bit. It’s a good thing I’m gay because if I was straight and didn’t want to be with her, we couldn’t be friends anymore. It would be way too awkward. Anyway, I don’t have to wonder if she’d be upset if I died because I KNOW she would be, and I really wouldn’t want to do that to her. I’d feel like a total dick for eternity, and that would probably really suck.

Deb is also present, and she’s crying too. She’s really a mess. Her make-up is running all over the place, and Michael is trying to comfort me. He’s hating my guts for hurting his mom and best friend. I mean really REALLY hating my guts. If I wasn’t already dead, he’d probably hunt me down, rip my head off and shit down my neck. I’m not always crazy about Michael, but sometimes I really like him, so I don’t want him to hate me for the rest of his life because he would. His mom and Brian are his whole world, especially now that he’s not with David anymore.

Deb is my second mom – actually, right now, I consider her my real mom. She’d understand how much I need Brian. She wouldn’t try to keep him away from me. She loves us both and wouldn’t be able to bear watching us both hurting. She’s been SO good to me – taking me in and putting up with my lazy ass. I’m so lucky to have her. For everything I lost when I came out, I gained something even more amazing, and her love is one of those things. She doesn’t deserve having her heart broken. I’d be the most ungrateful shit ever.

Lindsay and Mel and Gus are here, too. Lindsay is sobbing and Mel is clutching her hand, staring straight ahead, trying to keep herself from crying. Brian is sitting beside Linds and holding Gus on his lap. Gus looks a little freaked out that his parents are crying. Linds and Mel have been so good to me - especially Linds. She's artist and teaches art as well. She loves my work and got some of my drawings in a show at the Gay & Lesbian Center. Including one of Brian naked. LOL! It really freaked my mom out. Anyway, Linds got me an easel and art supplies as a present for getting into PIFA. I know how much art supplies cost, and I also know she and Mel don't have a ton of money. It was an amazing gift . . . and I just threw a spaz and trashed it yesterday. Nice, Justin. Jesus, I'm a wreck . . . and, in my imagination, so is Linds. God, I'm such as _asshole_ for throwing my talent away - even if I can't create art anymore, maybe I can teach it like Lindsay.

Shit. I think I just came up with a hope for my future. Rochelle, you are clever as a fox, aren't you? LOL!

Emmett and Ted are also present. They’re more Michael and Brian’s friends than mine, but they’ve always been nice to me and looked out for me when Brian was being a dickhead. I’m nothing but a kid to them, but they welcomed me into their circle and treated me like an adult and not just a teenager. I really like them both and sometimes get mad at Brian for being a jerk to them – especially Ted, who’s kind of boring but really sweet, too. God, Brian can be such an asshole sometimes.

My favorite teachers are there, and they look really unhappy, which is shitty because they always supported me. My second grade teacher is crying. She cries easily. I know because she used to cry in class sometimes when Billy and his asshole friends gave her shit. I think it was out of frustration. Can’t say I blame her. I’d probably cry too if I was a female.

Some of the nice kids at school are there and probably Tom and Stephanie who I worked with at the country club last summer. They were pretty cool to hang out with. They were the ones who introduced me to smoking. We used to drink the club members’ half-empty glasses of mimosa when the boss wasn’t looking and then go out behind the garage where they keep the golf carts and smoke a pack of cigarettes together. They’re all looking pretty bummed out that I died.

There are also some friends I made in the hospital – Joe, Jennifer and Jamie. Together we were the four J’s (that’s what everyone called us). They’re really upset (and maybe even a little mad) because they’d watched me fight to survive and get my strength back and now here I am dead. They’re thinking I’m a loser for giving-in even though they feel guilty thinking that. Green Bean is there too – and you too, Rochelle. You all look pretty grim. You feel like you failed me.

Great, I’m crying again. Thanks a lot, Rochelle. But I guess it’s the whole point, right? To make me feel like shit so that I won’t kill myself? Well, it’s working.

Alright, I guess I should imagine my family now. My aunts and uncles and cousins are there along with some of my parents’ friends. A couple of my cousins are really pretty cool. They live out west, so I don’t see them often, but when I do, it’s like no time has passed, and we pick up where we left off. I like hanging out with them. It makes being around my alcoholic grandmother (who lives with them) bearable – and even funny sometimes. Anyway, they’re really sad. My grandmother is there, but she’s passed out and drooling on her hideous polyester blouse. My grandfather’s there too, but I can’t imagine him crying or anything. I don’t know why exactly, but I’ve always gotten the impression that he doesn’t like me or Molly very much. I think he and my grandmother were angry that my mom got pregnant and “forced” my dad to marry her. Nice, huh? It’s not hard to see where my father got his asshole-genes from.

Speaking of my dad. He and his girlfriend are there because he’s a dick and wants to hurt my mom (and maybe even poor Molly). Honestly? I don’t see him crying. Actually he looks kind of bored. He keeps looking at his watch and grimaces while Daph is singing. He doesn’t love me anymore. I’m starting to wonder if he ever did. Of all the people in my life who deserves me killing myself, he’s the one. He probably resents me for being born – just like Brian says his own dad did.

Fuck him. Why should I give him the fucking pleasure – and the fucking out.

Molly’s there. She confused and angry and sad. I probably seriously fucked her up by killing myself. She DEFINITELY doesn’t deserve it.

So, now it’s time to picture my mom. She’s inconsolable, and I’m feeling so horrible right now. This is the main point of this assignment, isn’t it? I can see now that she is the person I want to punish. How fucked-up is that? She fucking gave birth to me, and now I’ve gone and thrown my life on the ground and shit on it. The only reason she’ll survive is because of Molly. But I ruined her life, didn’t I?

Fuck.

I’m sure there are other people I could imagine being at my funeral, but I’m stopping here. I don’t want to do this anymore. I feel like shit. But I know what you’re going to say – I can actually hear your voice in my head. You’re going to say that I shouldn’t feel like shit because this is all just my imagination. I haven’t killed myself. There isn’t going to be a funeral because I’m going to keep on living as a “fuck you” to Hobbs and my dad. But even more importantly, I’m going to keep living because there’s a fuck-load of people who care about me, including six people I’d fight to the death to protect. Brian. Daphne. Debbie. Gus. Molly . . . and, yeah, my mom. Maybe even mostly for her.

~J.T.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Try to convince me that this title of this chapter didn't freak you out a bit. ;)


	5. Revelation!

“Hey.”

“Good morning, Justin.”

“Good morning, Ms. Bernard.” 

“Good morning, Jennifer. Please call me Rochelle. You may sit anywhere.”

“That’s my chair, mom.”

“Oh! Oh, I’m sorry, sweetheart.”

“I’m joking. _That’s_ my chair over there.”

“Oh . . . alright . . . uhm . . .”

“It’s okay, mom. I really _was_ only kidding.”

“Is the sofa alright, Rochelle?”

“Of course. You may sit anywhere.”

“You can even sit on the yoga ball, Mom. Actually, please do. I’d like to see that.”

“It’s nice to see you smile, sweetheart. Even if it is at my expense.”

“Yeah, well, don’t get used to it.”

“Okay, so I can see that things are still tense at home. Justin, I’m glad you agreed to this meeting. I think it’s important. You, too, Jennifer. So, let’s get started. Justin, why don’t you start?”

“Uhm. What do you want me to say?”

“Anything you want.”

“To who – you or my mom?”

“Either one of us.”

“Okay, I’m going to say something to my mom. Mom, you’re ruining my life . . . .”

“Oh, Justin! Hearing you say that just breaks my heart. Why do you . . . ?”

“Jennifer, let Justin finish speaking. When he’d done, it’ll be your turn.”

“Alright. I’m sorry. Go on, honey.”

“I feel trapped, and I’m totally freaking out about it. First I was trapped in the hospital, and now I’m trapped at home . . .”

“Justin, I told you that you’re not a prisoner, I just want . . .”

“Please, Jennifer.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. Right. I’ll wait till he’s done talking. Go on, honey.”

“I know what you were going to say – you were going to say that I can come and go as long as I don’t go near Brian and Liberty Ave. But I need _both_. I need Liberty Ave. because that’s my home – that’s where I belong. With my people. And I need Brian more than the air I breathe. And it’s not just because I’m in love with him. He was helping me get better. I was improving more with him than I have been with my physical therapists. He _believes_ in me, mom. Yeah, I know the therapists do too, but it’s only a job to them. Brian was helping me because he cares about me . . . I see you turn away, but he really _does_ , Mom. He loves me. And that’s why he came to my prom. Because he loves me. I know he does.”

“Jennifer? Do you wish to respond?”

“I . . . I don’t know where to start. I have so much to say . . .”

“Just start where Justin left off.”

“Okay, that’s easy. The reason I don’t want you seeing Brian is that because of him, you almost died . . .”

“That’s bullshit!! Total fucking bullshit! How was Brian supposed to know . . . ?”

“Justin, please sit down. Your mom extended you the courtesy of listening to what you had to say, now you need to do the same with her.”

“But I _can’t_ listen to this shit! It’s all I’ve been listening to for days – Brian’s a horrible person. Brian almost got you killed. Brian’s a . . .”

“I _never_ said that Brian’s a horrible person, Justin. All I’ve said is that he shows poor judgment, and it was his poor judgment that put you in danger.”

“Same difference. How is Brian somehow different from his ‘judgment’?”

“Justin, please. Your mom is trying to talk to you.”

“Yeah, well, she’s already ‘talked’ to me more than enough.”

“I’m afraid I’ll have to end this discussion if you don’t let your mom speak. Shouting over each other isn’t helping anything. That’s why we’re here. To have the two of you talk with a mediator to help try to solve the problems you’re both having with the situation and each other. Justin, please sit down, and Jennifer, please continue.”

“I _know_ Brian cares about you and that he didn’t _intend_ to put your life in danger, but he did, and that’s all that matters to me. I’m your mother, Justin. I want you – no, I _need_ you – to be safe. Every time you leave the house, I start panicking even if you’re with Molly or Daphne. Imagine how I’d feel if you were with Brian?!”

“Jennifer, may I step in for a moment?”

“Sure, okay.”

“What I hear you saying is that _you’re_ afraid that something bad will happen if you permit Justin to see Brian, but this isn’t only about _you_ and the pain you’re going through. It’s also about Justin and the pain he’s going through. Right now, you two aren’t seeing the world from the other’s point of view.”

“He’s only eighteen . . .”

“God, Mom! First I was ‘only fifteen, then I was‘only sixteen,’ then I was ‘only seventeen,’ now I’m ‘only eighteen.’ How old do I have to be before you’ll let me go? Thirty? Forty? Fifty? _Never?_ ”

“Rochelle, can you please tell Justin that eighteen is too young to be in a relationship with a thirty year-old man?”

“Jennifer, I’m not going to ‘tell’ Justin anything, but I would like to suggest to you that he has a good point. He’s an adult.”

“Only according to the law. In reality he’s just a kid.”

“A ‘kid’ who went through something most adults never have and that few can understand.”

“But that’s just the thing, Rochelle. I didn’t want my baby to have to go through something so terrible - and I definitely don't want something like that to happen again.”

“I’m _not_ ‘your baby,’ Mom. I’m my own person. You need to let me make my own choices even if they upset you.”

“They do _more_ than ‘upset me,’ Justin. They _terrify_ me.”

“Many choices that children make cause their parents to feel afraid. It’s life. You and Justin need to be able to move past your fear for him.”

“Easier said than done.”

“Don’t cry, Mom.”

“I’m sorry, honey, I’m just so lost and confused.”

“You both are. That’s something you share. Can you become partners rather than adversaries? You both want the same thing – you both want Justin to heal.”

“Can’t you _talk_ to Brian instead of lecture him? You’d find out he’s not a horrible person. Yes, I know he didn’t visit me in the hospital, but that was only because he was . . .”

“He did visit you.”

*silence*

“He _what?_ ”

“I said he visited you. He visited you every night while you were in the hospital. The on-duty nurse told me.”

“Jesus fucking Christ!!”

“Justin, come back! Honey!”

“I CAN’T BELIEVE IT! I CAN’T FUCKING BELIEVE IT! Oh, my God! You let me believe that Brian didn’t care about me?? You actually let me believe that?? Do you even love me at all?? Because if you did, you NEVER would have kept that from me!”

“Here, take this box of Kleenex. And here’s one for you too, Jennifer. This is very momentous news.”

“You’re telling _me_!!”

“Justin, please try to calm down. Deep breaths. You’re on the verge of a panic attack.”

“And that’s a surprise?!?”

“Honey, I’m sorry . . . well, actually, no, I’m not. If I’d told you that Brian had visited you, there would’ve been no way I could stop you from going to him.”

“I can’t believe I’m hearing this. Rochelle, can you believe you’re hearing this? Mom, every single fucking time Rochelle and I have met, I’ve talked about how upset I was that Brian didn’t come see me. You should see my diary. It’s practically all I’ve written about. You have NO FUCKING IDEA how much pain I was in thinking that the man I loved didn’t give a shit whether I lived or died. How could you do that to me? _How??_ ”

“It was for your own good.”

“That’s your fucking mantra, isn’t it. Clearly you don’t have a fucking clue what’s for my own good . . . nor Brian’s either.”

“Brian’s a big boy.”

“Brian may be a ‘big boy,’ but he has a heart, and _you_ broke it, Mom! How does that feel? Is that your revenge? Huh?”

“Justin, that’s ridiculous! I was _not_ seeking revenge when I told Brian to leave you alone. I was looking out for . . .”

“. . . let me guess. My best interests.”

“Rochelle, I think we should end this session.”

“I actually don’t think that’s a good idea, Jennifer. You dropped some pretty heavy news into Justin’s lap, and he’s angry – I’ll even go so far as to say justifiably so.”

“You should meet Brian before you tell me that I was unjustified in trying to keep him away from my son. He’s a terrible influence. He drinks heavily, he does drugs, he has promiscuous sex . . . Justin, how can you think he loves you when he’s having sex with every man who’ll say ‘yes’ when he asks them to? Please try to help me understand it, because I don’t. I really don’t. And the fact that he visited you in the hospital doesn’t change my dislike of his lifestyle.”

“Mom, even if I tried to explain everything, you wouldn’t be able to understand.”

“Try me. Try to convince me that Brian’s not bad news.”

“He’s _not_ ‘bad news’! He’s gay, okay? That’s why he fucks other guys. That’s what gay men do. We’re not like fucking heterosexual ‘dudes’ who only _pretend_ to want to be monogamous with their little girlfriends so they can fuck them. It’s all a lie – a pathetic charade. And you know what, Mom? I fuck other guys too. I fucked a kid at Daphne’s party, which, by the way, you encouraged me to go to because kids my age apparently don’t drink, do drugs or have sex. And I fucked a guy in the backroom of Babylon. And you know what? I _loved_ it. Because I’m gay. I fuck men. That’s what gay men do. We fuck. But it doesn’t mean anything. When Brian fucks other guys, it’s just for fun. It’s no big deal. It’s just fucking.”

“Rochelle, I can’t listen to this.”

“Nice. You ask me to explain things and when I do, you freak out and stick your fingers in your ears.”

“It’s just so dangerous, Justin! Didn’t your father and I teach you to be responsible?”

“You did, and I listened! I always use a condom, and I’d never let anyone fuck me without one . . .”

“Even Brian?”

*silence*

“Great. Just great. Another reason to not want you to see him again.”

“We get tested for HIV, mom.”

“How often?”

“Every six months – well, for Brian. I’ve been doing it every month, but don’t have a spaz. We always use a condom, so the issue is moot.”

“Brian waits SIX MONTHS to get tested?! Justin, he’s, as you’ve so eloquently put it, ‘fucking’ everyone under the sun. Six months for someone with his lifestyle is an irresponsibly long time.”

*sigh* For fuck sake, mom.”

“For ‘fuck sake,’ indeed! I’m not wrong, Rochelle. And everyone in this room knows it. Brian should be getting tested _at least_ every month, if not every week.”

“Jesus Christ, mom. You’re totally overacting. Brian _always_ practices safe sex. You should see how many condoms he has in his pockets and all over his loft. He even has a pile of them by the T.V. so they’ll be handy when we get horny watching porn.”

“Justin, that’s enough. Now you’re oversharing just to get a reaction out of your mom. That’s not helpful.”

“Well, _over_ sharing is sure a hell of a lot better than _under_ sharing. I still can’t believe she didn’t tell me that Brian visited me – and clearly, she never intended to.”

“You’re damn right, I didn’t!”

“I can’t deal with this anymore. I can’t take it. I’m so fucking tired.”

“Honey . . .”

“Don’t you _dare_ ‘honey’ me!”

“I truly regret having to say this, but our hour is up. Jennifer, would you please step outside while I talk to Justin for a minute?”

“You’re going to take his side, aren’t you?”

“I’m not taking anyone’s side. I’m trying to help you both so that you can repair your relationship and move forward.”

“Not happening’”

“I’m inclined to agree.”

“Okay. I’m not surprised. There are a lot of intense emotions and sticky issues between you. I recommend family therapy.”

“Jesus Christ. Not _more_ therapy.”

“Are you telling me you haven’t found our meetings productive?”

*silence.”

“Alright, Jennifer. Thank you for coming in today. I will email you a list of family therapists I would recommend.”

“Why not you?”

“Because Justin is my patient, and I can clearly see that your interests are in conflict with each other’s.”

“So, like I said, you’re taking his side.”

“I would prefer not to think of it that way, but like I said, Justin is my patient and my primary responsibility is to help guide _him_ , not you, not Brian, not anyone else. My hope and goal is that in guiding him, we can get to the place where the two of you are no longer butting heads.”

“Justin, I’ll be waiting in the car. Thank you, Rochelle.”

“Good-bye, Jennifer. I’ll email you and c.c. Justin later this afternoon.”

“Thank you. See you in a minute, sweetie.”

“HOLY. FUCKING. SHIT!! Did you hear what she said?? Did you _hear_ it?? Brian came to the hospital – he fucking CAME TO THE HOPITAL!! Every fucking night! When did he sleep?? Fuck! Stupid asshole! Why didn’t he visit me during the day??”

“I think that’s a question you need to ask him.”

“Yeah, right. As though I’ll be able to with my mom acting like a fucking prison guard.”

“Do you know what you want to say to him?”

“I want to hug him and then punch him and then tell his he’s an asshole. And then I’m going to hug him again and kiss him and tell him I love him.”

“Sounds like another diary entry.”

“I knew you were going to say that.”

“I have a feeling that you will see him again – perhaps even sooner than later – and you should know what you want to say ahead of time. From what you’re told me of Brian, I think it’ll be a very delicate situation that’ll require a delicate touch. But like I said – things might happen very quickly.”

“Yeah, right. Obviously you heard something during this meeting that I didn’t.”

“Perhaps I did.”

“You’re very cryptic, you know. It’s kind of annoying.”

“I understand. ‘Cryptic’ is certainly not your style.”

“Nope. If I’ve got something to say, then I’m going to say it and no one’s going to stop me.”

“I admire that trait in you – I also think it can get you in trouble and damage your relationships if you don’t think things through before you start talking.”

“Hence the diary.”

“Hence the diary.”

 

 

**July 25, 2001**

**Assignment:** Imagine a conversation in which I tell Brian that I know he came to see me at the hospital every night. 

**Degree of bat-poopness:** Medium

 **Rating:** Pornographic

 

Me: Brian, can we talk before we fuck?  
Brian: No.  
Me: Okay, how about **after** we fuck?  
Brian: Maybe.  
Me: I guess that’s the extent of your assurance.  
Brian: Yup. Now go to the bedroom and get undressed. I’ll get a popper.  
Me: No need to ask twice.  
Brian: _opens fridge - closes fridge_  
Me: God, you look hot.  
Brian: I always look hot. _snorts popper - hands it to me - I do same_  
Me: Why am I the only one who’s fully naked?  
Brian: Because I’m taking my time. Lie down on your stomach.  
Me: Yes, sir!  
Brian: Good boy.  
Me: _put pillow under my chest - hug it - watch Brian get undressed - admire his beautiful body - get hard_  
Brian: Mmmmmm . . . _places his hand on my shoulder and slides it down my back, over my ass and down the backs on my legs_  
Me: _get goosebumps_  
Brian: Very nice. Spread your legs  
Me: _comply_  
Brian: _moves to sit between my legs - kisses down the length of my spine_  
Me: _sigh_  
Brian: _lies down on his stomach - spreads open my ass cheeks with both hands - starts licking my asshole_ *  
Me: _moan with appreciation_  
Brian: _After several minutes – presses his fingertip against my asshole and slowly pushes it in_  
Me: _moan even louder_  
Brian: Feel good? I bet you missed this. _licks and fingers me at the same time_  
Me: _almost come_  
Brian: Don’t come yet. I want to fuck you. _pulls finger out_ Roll over.  
Me: _comply - gaze up at his flushed face_  
Brian: _tears condom packet open with teeth - removes condom and hands it to me_ Put it on me. I know you love to.  
Me: _take condom - sheathe his gorgeous cock_  
Brian: _helps put my ankles on his shoulders - reaches for lube - squirts it on my asshole - squirts it on his dick - starts stroking himself_  
Me: Put it in me!  
Brian: Needy. I like that. _places head of his cock against my asshole_ Ready?  
Me: I was born ready.  
Brian: _grins - pushes cock in my ass_  
Me: _cry out - grip his biceps_  
Brian: _starts thrusting slow and deep - looks into my eyes_  
Me: _look into his_  
Brian: _sighs - groans_ God, you feel so fucking good.  
Me: _squeeze ass as hard as I can_  
Brian: _moans - quickens thrusts_ I’m going to come soon – it’s been a long time since I was last in your ass. **Way** too long.  
Me: _feel pleased with self and universe in general - cry out when the head of his cock rubs against my prostate_ **  
Brian: _groans - quickens pace - deepens thrusts_  
Me: _start stroking my cock_  
Brian: **Fuck!**  
Me: Come, Brian . . . please . . .  
Brian: _starts losing rhythm_ Too soon . . . _groans and comes anyway_  
Me: Jesus, Brian. God, you’re so fucking **hot** when you come.  
Brian: _breathes heavily - keeps thrusting hard, fast and deep_  
Me: _feel orgasm build_  
Brian: _pants_ I’m going to fuck you all fucking night. _gasps_  
Me: _pant_ I should hope so. _gasp_  
Brian: _groans grunts and comes again - pulls out - goes down on me_  
Me: _come in less than a minute_ Oh, my fucking God!  
Brian: It’s true. I am a Fucking God.”  
Me: _laugh breathlessly_  
Brian: Like you remember?  
Me: Even better than I remembered.  
Brian: _sits up - takes off condom - checks out the amount of come - smiles appreciatively - ties condom - throws it away - lies down beside me - gets cigarette - lights it_ So . . . what is it that you want to talk about?  
Me: The fact that you visited me in the hospital every night.  
Brian: _smokes - stares at ceiling - says nothing_  
Me: My mom told me.***  
Brian: She did, huh?  
Me: Yup.  
Brian: Well, now you know.  
Me: Why didn’t you visit me during the day so I could actually see and talk to you?”  
Brian: Nothing to talk about.  
Me: Kind of like now?  
Brian: Exactly like now.  
Me: So that’s it? That’s all you’re going to say?  
Brian: Yup.  
Me: Anything else I should know about?  
Brian: You didn’t need to know that I went to the hospital.  
Me: Yeah, I did. I thought you didn’t care whether I lived or died.  
Brian: That was stupid.  
Me: Didn’t seem like it at the time.  
Brian: _Finishes cigarette - crushes butt in ashtray_ Well, it was. _gets out of bed_ Besides, I told you – there was nothing I could do.  
Me: How about let me know that you gave a shit about me? Or at the very least, you could’ve helped me past the time. I was bored shitless.  
Brian: The nurses wouldn't let me smoke, and I’m pretty sure they wouldn’t have let me blow you either.  
Me: There are other ways of passing the time.  
Brian: There are?  
Me: Yes, there are.  
Brian: _tackles me and starts kissing me_  
Me: Mmmuurrphhmmmm!  
Brian: _pulls back for a second_  
Me: I’m not done talking.  
Brian: I am. Why don’t you put your mouth to better uses and suck my cock? _presses said rock-hard cock against mine_  
Me: _gasp_ Okay. _roll him over - go down on him - swallow his dick to the root_  
Brian: _combs his finger in my hair_ Oh, **fuck** , you’re so fucking good at sucking cock. _groans - makes those blow job sounds I love so much - eventually comes - returns the favor_

Me: Thank you.

Brian: You're welcome.

Me: I meant for visiting me in the hospital and watching over me while I slept.

Brian: _props self on elbow - leans down - kisses me tenderly_

**THE END**

***** This act is called “rimming.” It feels fucking amazing!  
** There’s a gland inside a male’s rectum called the “prostate gland.” During ejaculation, it secretes fluids designed to nourish the sperm. These fluids are generally composed of simple sugars and are often slightly acidic. In human prostatic secretions, the protein content is less than 1% and includes proteolytic enzymes, prostatic acid phosphatase, beta-microseminoprotein, and prostate-specific antigen. The secretions also contain zinc with a concentration 500–1,000 times the concentration in blood. Touching it feels fucking AWESOME. You can have an orgasm merely by rubbing it with no stroking of the penis.  
*** Note that I did not say that she told me in the context of a therapy session. Brian MUST NEVER KNOW that I’m in therapy. 

**_ _ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so this is _probably_ not canon, but it could be, right? I mean, how likely is it that Justin never found out Brian had visited him in the hospital?


	6. Western Psychiatric Institute

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Thank you so much for the enthusiastic reception of my wacky fic. I'm having a lot of fun writing it. It's a refreshing break away from traditional narrative forms. I know this is a bit of a cliffie, but I'm going away and won't have time to write & post another chapter until _maybe_ June 4th. _Maybe_. I'll have to see how crazed I feel - I have a mere three-day window between returning from Utah and flying to Bulgaria!

**MEMORANDUM**  
**To:** Rochelle Bernard, MS, LPC, LCSW  
**From:** Dr. Bonnie Schreibman, MD  
**C.c.** Dr. Mark DuBois, MD  
**Re:** Justin Taylor’s Psychiatric Report  
**Date:** August 2, 2001

Justin Taylor (hereinafter: “J.T.”), 18, was admitted voluntarily to Western Psychiatric Institute (University of Pittsburgh Medical Center) on the evening of 7/28/01. J.T. has been previously diagnosed with Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder and Generalized Anxiety Disorder by Dr. Richard Balter stemming from a violent, near fatal attack on 5/11/01 in which J.T. suffered a severe blow to the skull. 

On 7/28, J.T.’s mother brought J.T. to Alleghany General’s emergency room where he was placed in IC and then transported to Western Psychiatric Institute where he remains hospitalized at this time. Should his status remain unchanged, he is scheduled to be released on 8/4. If voluntarily admitted, patients are hospitalized for a minimum of one week.

When interviewed, J.T. stated that, in a highly agitated state, he shoved his mother against a wall. He stated that this is not the first time he has assaulted her and is afraid that he might do so again if not removed from the residence. The assault did not result in an injury, and police were not contacted.

Since his admission, J.T. has been suffering from Dream Anxiety Disorder (DSM-IV number is 307.47.). Individuals with this disorder suffer acutely from nightmares that often portray the individual in a situation that jeopardizes their life or personal safety, usually occurring during the second half of the sleeping process, which is known as the REM stage of sleep. J.T. reports that he has been having such nightmares – often several in one night – since he emerged from a coma. The nightmares almost always feature his attacker. Because the nightmares interrupt his REM sleep, Justin reports feeling tired and listless much of the time.

In addition to nightmares, J.T. suffers from severe panic attacks that appear to be worsening in regards to frequency and severity. Occasionally, these attacks are debilitating in nature and in a couple incidences have required sedation. The attacks are characterized by extreme agitation, anxiety, shallow breathing, rapid pulse and near-fainting.

For the most part, J.T. is very personable and cooperative with treatment providers; however, once in a while, he can become quite angry and combative. In therapy, he reports feeling rage and sometimes even hatred for his mother although he is adamant that he does not intend nor wish to hurt her either emotionally or physically, which is why he voluntarily admitted himself to WPI. He has a younger sibling but reports feeling no animosity toward her.

J.T. reports that he is estranged from his father and has had no contact with him for almost a year. This fact is one of the several sources of his depression and anxiety. He is uncertain as to whether he would like to reconcile with his father at this time or at any point in the future. It is not his top priority.

His top priority is to be reunited with his former lover (one, Brian Kinney, hereinafter: B.K.). He reports that his mother has forbidden B.K. from seeing or in any other way interacting with J.T., a request with which B.K. has complied. J.T. reports that his mother’s actions vis-à-vis B.K. are the sole source of his anger toward her – an anger that is quite formidable and profound.

J.T. reports that B.K. was his lover for nearly a year and that he lived with B.K. on and off during that time. He considers B.K. a mentor and reports that he “feels lost and alone” without B.K. in his life. He further states that he does not believe he can heal physically or psychologically without B.K.’s assistance.

In addition to grieving deeply over the absence of B.K., J.T. reports feeling resentful toward his mother for prohibiting him from interacting with other homosexuals. He asserts that his mother believes that his homosexual identity in general and his affiliation with B.K. in particular were the cause of the attack that nearly killed him.

J.T. presents as severely depressing and borderline suicidal. Although he states that he has seriously considered suicide, he reports never having taken a step toward carrying out a specific plan. It is my concern, however, that he may not be being entirely honest with me. My hope is that he will be with you, which is why I am requesting your assistance and intervention at this time.

When not in bed, J.T. sits for hours in the patient lounge watching television. He has not made an effort to interact with other patients despite efforts of staff to get him to do so. He attends group therapy sessions but does not participate. When alone, J.T. cries quite a lot. He reports not being able to read. He does, however, engage in some arts & crafts projects, which seem to momentarily distract him from his unhappiness and anxiety.

J.T. has requested that his mother not visit him while he is hospitalized, a wish that she had anticipated and has respected. J.T. receives daily visits from two women by the names of Daphne and Debbie. J.T.’s mood significantly improves in their presence.

At J.T.’s request, repeated attempts have been made to contact B.K. These attempts have not been successful, a fact about which J.T. seems sad and resigned. At this point, I have determined that further efforts to contact and engage B.K. would be both fruitless and disruptive to J.T.’s recovery.

Yesterday morning, I met with J.T.’s mother. She reports great sadness over her son’s mental and physical conditions. She states that she has done everything she can think of to help and care for him, but those efforts have been in vain. She asserts that, rather than improving his state of mind, her efforts to comfort him appear to worsen the situation, an assessment with which I agree. She reports that, at this time, J.T. is not speaking to her and refuses to let her come in physical contact with him. In fact, it has been when she’s tried to hug him and comfort him that he lashes out in anger. I advised her that she should not try to touch him. For his part, J.T. expresses a profound dislike of physical contact of any form and that even his visitors’ efforts to comfort him through touch make him highly anxiety and agitated. As a result, we have advised his visitors not to come in physical contact with him. We have also advised the staff to touch him only if absolutely necessary for his safety or the safety of others.

In summation: J.T. suffers from several acute symptoms of PTSD. I have advised him that psychotropic medication could help ameliorate those symptoms, but other than sedatives designed to produce dream-free sleep, he has strongly and clearly stated his aversion to being medicated.

At this juncture, I believe that J.T. is sufficiently stable to be released to the care and custody of his mother. Both have expressed amenability to engage in family counseling. J.T. has also assured me that if the situation with his mother worsens that he will readmit himself. I have every reason to believe he would do so should the need arise. He is a bright, sensitive young man. I do not consider him an imminent threat to himself or others.

As a final note: I advised J.T.’s mother to reconsider her position regarding B.K. Upon discussing the situation with her, I have reason to believe that she could successfully convince him to reenter J.T.’s life in some capacity, even if limited in degree and extent. Initially, she was resistant to my advice, but she became less so over the course of our conversation. I do believe that B.K.’s presence in J.T.’s life, although not without its complications and concerns, would be more beneficial than detrimental to J.T.’s health and wellbeing. At the point of writing this memorandum, I do believe that J.T.’s mother feels the same way.


	7. A Sexual Obsession

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jennifer gets an eyeful - and suddenly everything makes terrifying sense. Feel more than free to thank me profusely for the link.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I said I wouldn't be posting another chapter soon, but I already managed to injure myself on a hike yesterday :-/ So, I'm taking a day off to rest while everyone else has gone off to play around on their mountain bikes. Ggggggrrrrr. At least, I had an excellent way to distract myself. Enjoy!

Jennifer Taylor walked through the door of Allegheny General's emergency room into a barbecue-perfect July evening. In a daze, she walked to her car and got in. She put the key in the ignition, but she didn't turn it. Instead, she sat with her hands on the steering wheel, staring straight ahead at nothing.

Her sweet child - the boy she'd raised from a curious toddler to a brave, handsome young man - had shoved her against a wall, threatened to kill himself, and then begged to be taken to the emergency room so he could admit himself to a psychiatric hospital.

How had it come to this?

When the tears started, she didn't even bother trying to stop them.

Brian Kinney. The two words gnawed on her brain with the tenacity of termites. He'd come into their lives and ruined everything. True, she and Craig had been living with an uneasy truce for years, but it'd held their household together. She knew the kids didn't know of his affairs - that the discord between their parents hadn't infected their lives with fear and helplessness. Soon Justin would've been going out-of-state to college, and Molly would've reached an age when a divorce wouldn't be as traumatizing as it would be now.

Then along had come Brian Kinney, and everything went to hell in a hand basket. It _still_ was going to hell in a hand basket.

Yes, Justin was gay. She'd known he was for several years, but she'd always hoped he'd get out of his small-minded high school before he began to experiment with sex and love. Brown University would've been a perfect fit - liberal, accepting, in the midst of a fun, little city. She would've fought Craig tooth and nail over Dartmouth, which was just far too conservative and isolated . . . but it'd all become a moot point when Brian Kinney had recklessly sauntered into Justin's life.

She wished she could hate him. It would make life easier. But she didn't. Especially after the nurse had told her that Brian had come to the hospital every night to watch over her son. She knew Brian cared about Justin - she was pretty sure Brian might even be in love with her son. It was hard to hate someone who loves your little boy almost as as you do.

But . . . .

But Brian had almost gotten her little boy killed. He was a thirty year-old man, for heaven's sake! He had no business being in a relationship, no matter how loving, with a teenager. If it wasn't outright creepy, it was wrong. The _only_ comfort she'd taken in the situation was that, as an adult, Brian had more sense and better judgment than Justin . . . but, oh boy, had she been wrong! And the mistake she'd made - the mistake of letting her son be with Brian (and live in Brian's world) - had almost cost Justin his future. It was a price far too high to pay for puppy-dog love!

So, she'd told Brian to go away and never come back. She'd ordered him to leave her son alone and never see him again. She'd practiced her speech for hours and braced herself for a fight. But in the end, Brian had folded quickly and effortlessly. She wasn't sure if it was because Brian really didn't care all that much for Justin, which made letting Justin go easy - or that he cared so much that he'd believed her when she said that he was a bad influence and that the kindest, most generous and loving thing he could do was let Justin go. The stricken look on his face when he'd handed her the tennis ball and walked to his Jeep had suggested to her that it was the latter.

She'd thought she'd acted in her beloved son's best interest. Now, she wasn't so sure she'd made the right decision. Instead of protecting Justin, she may have damaged him as much - or perhaps even more than - Chris Hobbs had.

 

* * * * * * * * *

 

She knew it was the staff psychiatrist calling even before she answered the phone. She'd been expecting her call for days. She was even pretty sure she knew what the psychiatrist was going to say. She was right.

"Hello? this is Jennifer Taylor."

"Good morning, Jennifer, I'm Dr. Bonnie Schreibman."

"Good morning."

"I'm calling about your son."

"How is he?"

"He is doing measurably better since he was admitted."

"Oh, thank God!"

"As you know, Justin is an adult and as such I cannot divulge any significant details of his case to you. To do so would be against the laws protecting patients' rights."

"Can you at least tell me if he's still thinking about killing himself?"

"Yes, I can tell you that I believe he is no longer a threat to himself or others, which is why I will recommend that he should be released on Saturday."

"Are you sure it's not too soon?"

"I am as sure as anyone in my position can be. I cannot read his mind, but he does not currently present as suicidal. But . . ."

"I _knew_ a 'but' was coming. What is it?"

"It is both my and Justin's treating therapist's view that Justin should be permitted to see Brian Kinney. We believe that being able to interact with Mr. Kinney will be more positive than negative."

"I see."

"I'm not saying that permitting Justin to see Mr. Kinney does not raise some reasonable concerns, but both I and Rochelle believe that the benefits outweigh the risks."

"When you say risks, what do you mean?"

"There is a possibility that Mr. Kinney will not want to reengage with Justin, which will be painful for Justin. But, that said, even if Mr. Kinney tells him that he does not want a relationship, Justin will have some degree of closure."

"He'll no longer be living with a huge 'what if' hanging over his head."

"Exactly."

"Are there any other risks that you foresee?"

"There is always the risk - if not the certainty - that Mr. Kinney's presence in Justin's life will not solve all of Justin's emotional problems. No one person can heal the psychic wounds he sustained as a result of his attack and near-fatal injuries."

"I understand."

"Mr. Kinney's presence in Justin's life will not be a silver bullet, so to speak."

"But you still think his presence would be better than his absence?"

"Yes, I do. Right now, Justin displays an acute fear of touch and human contact. A lover may be able to ameliorate that fear and profound discomfort. Justin may desire a lover's touch even though he adamantly does not want others to touch him - even you."

"I've noticed that he does not like to be touched. It's when I try to touch him that he assaults . . . I mean grows extremely angry at me."

"That is not surprising."

"So, you're telling me that Justin needs Brian to touch him so that eventually others can too?"

"Yes, that's what I'm saying."

"But the risk is that Brian may not be able to help him."

"There will always be that risk."

"I guess that's true."

"I also hope that being around Mr. Kinney will lessen the frequency of Justin's nightmares."

"So, you're saying that I must let Justin spend the night with Brian. I don't know if I can go that far."

"For Justin's sake, you need to let him go. You need to let him decide whether and to what degree he wants to interact with Mr. Kinney. He's an adult, Ms. Taylor."

"Maybe in the eyes of the law, but not in mine."

"I understand that. But he perceives himself as an adult and has the right to do so. Right now he feels totally helpless to direct his own life and make his own decisions. I believe that that sense of disempowerment has caused him to feel suicidal."

"You're basically calling me a monster."

"I am most _certainly not_ calling you a monster. You are a concerned and loving parent."

"Thank you for saying that."

"Well, it's true. And Justin _knows_ that. It's why he doesn't want to be in a position to hurt you. Living with you is making it more likely than not that he will lash out at you - or harm himself."

"Okay. I get it. I'm bad for him and 'Mr. Kinney' is good for him."

"You sound exactly like Justin - right now, he is also thinking in stark terms of black and white. You two need to find something in-between. You _have to_ to keep your relationship intact and both of you safe."

"So, what should I do?"

"I cannot answer that question. It's a decision you must make, but I advise you to make it sooner rather than later - preferably before Justin is released."

"Alright. I've listened to everything you've told me and understand it. Thank you. I'll take things from here."

"You're welcome . . . and good luck."

 

* * * * * * * * *

 

Brian escorted her to his door. He hadn't asked her to sit down, but, by the end of her visit, he'd noticeably relaxed and even smiled a few times - a fact she considered a victory.

As she walked to her car, she realized that he'd listened to her and understood her, but he'd given her no indication of what he planned to do next. Would he once again comply with her request? Or would he dig in his heels out of pride and defy her? She was fairly certain he wouldn't do the latter, but who knew? Brian was a mystery to her. He obviously regretted permitting her to see into his heart the day she'd ordered him out of Justin's life because today, he'd given her nothing. His face had been a mask of indifference and even irritation. His words had revealed little. But even his reticence convinced her that more was going on inside him than met the eye . . .

. . . speaking of which . . . she'd certainly gotten quite the eyeful when he'd opened the door. He'd been naked, and his body was _very much_ that of an adult. Justin still had a little bit of a child's pudgy softness, but not Brian. He was all lean muscle. He had a gorgeous body . . . and, yes, she'd found it very attractive. Who wouldn't? His body was as handsome as his face. She'd admired it - reluctantly. It felt wrong to be 'lusting after' her son's lover . . . But . . . but he was just so damn beautiful!

She got in her car, put the key into the ignition, but once again, she didn't turn it. Instead she sat with her hands on the steering wheel, gazing ahead unseeingly just as she's done that evening she'd dropped off Justin at Allegheny's emergency room. She understood now, and - well, frankly, it scared the hell out of her. Brian could be cruel to her son - he could even be abusive - but Justin would never leave him. Even more than Justin loved Brian, he was sexually attracted to him. Brian was a sexual obsession. She had no doubt that his touch was as addictive as cocaine. Justin would _never_ voluntarily leave him, no matter how terrible Brian might be to him.

She closed her eyes and shuddered. Why oh why hadn't she just called Brian or asked to meet him in a neutral place? But she knew the answer to her own questions: she'd been curious. She'd wanted to see where her son would be living and under what conditions. And what had she discovered? A 'fuck pad' that had been put to successful use just minutes before. You don't escort a "friend" to the door in your birthday suit if you hadn't just had sex with him. Just as she'd feared, that was what Brian was all about - sex, sex, and more sex. And what's more, he obviously loved and craved that knowledge. He wasn't embarrassed by her presence for even the blink of an eye. He'd seemed even proud. He certainly hadn't run for his bedroom to get dressed or stammered a lie about why that guy had been there. He clearly didn't give a shit about what she thought or how uncomfortable she felt . . .

. . . and she was pretty sure that he behaved the same around her son.

Jesus Christ! Why was she doing this? Why was she giving her little lamb to a wolf?

She took a deep breath and opened her eyes. The only good thing that was going to come out of the situation was Justin's gratitude. He'd probably even hug her. It should be a dream come true for her . . .

. . . but it wasn't. She was pretty sure it was another nightmare in the making.

She started the engine and drove home. What had she just done. What on God's green earth had she just _done >?_

TBC 

[You're So Sexy](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DrdvLeJ5Kjc&feature=youtube_gdata_player)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Obsession
> 
>  
> 
> You're an obsession  
> I cannot sleep  
> I'm your possession  
> Unopened at your feet  
> There's no balance  
> No equality  
> But still I will not accept defeat
> 
> I will have you  
> Yes, I'll have you  
> I will find a way  
> And I will have you  
> Like a butterfly  
> A wild butterfly  
> I will collect you  
> and capture you
> 
> You're an obsession  
> You're my obsession  
> Who do you want me to be  
> to make you sleep with me?
> 
> I feed you  
> I drink you  
> You're my day  
> and my night  
> I need you  
> I need you  
> by sun or candle light  
> You protest, you want to leave  
> Stay!  
> There's no alternative
> 
> Your face appears again  
> I see the beauty there  
> But, stranger, beware  
> A circumstance  
> in your naked dreams  
> My love is not what it seems
> 
> My fantasy has turn to madness  
> And my goodness has turned to badness  
> I need to possess you  
> Has consumed my soul  
> My life is trembling  
> I have no control
> 
> I will have you  
> Yes, I will have you  
> I will find a way  
> And I will have you  
> Like a butterfly  
> A wild butterfly  
> I will collect you  
> and capture you
> 
> You are an obsession  
> You're my obsession  
> Who do you want me to be  
> To make you sleep with me?  
> Animotion - "Obsession"


	8. Flowing Free

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Justin shows Rochelle a picture of him and Brian and the prom.

“Good morning, Rochelle.”

“Good morning, Justin. I must say you’re looking very cheerful today. To be frank, I’m rather surprised. Just two days ago, you were in the hospital.”

“A lot can change in two days.”

“Clearly. Do you want to tell me about it?”

“I’m back together with Brian.”

“I see. Do you want to elaborate?”

“Sure. My mom picked me up at the hospital and told me, like, totally out of the blue, that Brian would be over later to pick me up and that I should pack anything I wanted to take with me.”

“So, you’re living with Brian now?”

“Yup.”

“How’s that going?”

“Great.”

“Great?”

“Yeah, great. Why wouldn’t things be going great?”

“Because just last week you were in the hospital after having shoved your mom and threatened to kill yourself.”

“That was only because I couldn’t see Brian.”

“So, the nightmares are gone?”

“Yup.”

“The panic attacks?”

“Yup.”

“What about your reluctance to be touched? . . . . Justin?”

“It’ll just take time, that’s all.”

“What will?”

“I’ll . . . well . . . shit. This is _really_ embarrassing to talk about.”

“All the more reason to talk about it.”

“Brian . . . we tried . . . we tried to have sex and . . . and I couldn’t. I just couldn’t.”

“Did you not want to have sex?”

“No, that’s not it! I totally wanted to. I just . . . I don’t know. He, I mean, Brian . . . he tried to . . . uhm . . . enter me, and I got really freaked out. It sucked.”

“Did you two talk about it?”

“A little.”

“What did you say?”

“I said it was Hobbs’s fault, and Brian told me not to think about it . . . but I can’t help it. I can’t just shut out my thoughts. That’s how he does things. He pushes stuff out of his head and doesn’t dwell on it. I sometimes . . . I sometimes feel weak because I can’t. I’m afraid he’ll think I’m a baby.”

“Do you think he thinks that?”

“Maybe sometimes . . . like the other day when he picked me up at my mom’s. He told me to stop being a brat because I was bitching about my mom.”

“Why do you think he said that?”

“I don’t know. Sometimes he can get really bitchy. He actually said I’m lucky. Can you believe that? After everything my mom put us through, he says I’m lucky? I wonder if he’d think that if he knew I’d been in the hospital.”

“Did he say why you’re lucky?”

“Not really. He just said I was lucky to have a mom who cared about me. It was kind of annoying, actually. It bugs me when he lectures me about stuff.”

“It sounds like maybe he’s envious of your relationship with your mom.”

“Envious? Brian? No way.”

“Do you know anything about his relationship with his own mother?”

“Not really . . . well, I guess it can’t be super great if he could say I’m lucky to have my crazy mom.”

“It does sound that way. Is that something you’d like to talk about with him?”

“His mom?”

“Yes.”

“He’ll never do it. He never talks about stuff that upsets him. Like I said, he just pushes shit out of his mind.”

“Or perhaps it might merely _seem_ like he does.”

“I wish . . . Honestly? I really wish we could talk about the bashing, Brian and I.”

“Does he not realize your unwillingness to be touched . . . ?”

“It’s not _unwillingness_ ; it’s inability. I _want_ to make love with him – I want it more than anything. I just can’t. I’m afraid this won’t go away. I’m afraid I’ll lose him if he can’t have sex with me.”

“So, you think he’ll reject you if you can’t have sex with him.”

“When you put it like that, he sounds like a real asshole. He’s not like that. He’s just . . . sex is really important to him.”

“I remember your mom mentioned when she was here that he has several sex partners.”

“They’re not really ‘partners.’ They’re just guys he hooks up with. If he has a ‘sex partner,’ it’s me.”

“You sound proud of that fact.”

“Very!”

“And you want to keep that status.”

“Duh.”

“And you think if you can’t have sex that you might not be his ‘sex partner’ any longer.”

“Basically. Yeah.”

“Is this something you can discuss with him?”

“Oh, God no!”

“Why not?”

“Because . . . well, he’s not . . . he doesn’t really like the idea of ‘partners.’”

“I see. Except you’re living with him. Are you roommates?”

“I . . . no . . . I’m more than that. We don’t have labels.”

“But it sounds like you’d like a label.”

“Do we have to talk about this?”

“Of course not. We never have to talk about anything that you don’t want to.”

“Okay. Good.”

“Is there something you _would_ like to talk about?”

“I . . . can you help me have sex again?”

“Well, I know the doctors discussed medication with you . . .”

“I don’t want medication. Brian would be totally disgusted if I took meds.”

“But what about _you_? Would you be disgusted?”

“I’d be disgusted by anything that makes him disgusted.”

“I see.”

“Oh please. I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking I’m, like, brainwashed or something.”

“I don't think you’re brainwashed. I’m just concerned that your strong feelings for Brian might impact your ability to make sound choices.”

“Don’t anti-depressants have sexual side effects? That’d be all I need.”

“Yes, they can.”

“Then screw that. Pun intended, by the way.”

“I would still like you to discuss it with a psychiatrist.”

“Would it make you feel better?”

“It would make me feel better. In the meantime, why don’t you take things slower with Brian. Maybe don’t try to have sex. Have him give you a back rub or just hold you.”

“Like _that’ll_ happen.”

“Just a suggestion.”

“I’m not saying it’s a bad idea, it’s just never going to happen. Brian doesn’t cuddle.”

“I see. Perhaps there’s something else you could do. Do you dance?”

“Oh! Oh! Oh! That reminds me!! Oh my God, I can’t believe I forgot to show you this!”

“What is it?”

“It’s a picture this girl took of me and Brian at the prom and gave it to Daphne. Check it out.”

“That’s beautiful.”

“Isn’t it? God, you have NO IDEA how badly I want to remember that night. Not the bashing, of course, but Brian and me. I still can’t believe he even showed up!”

“He must care about you very much.”

“Yeah, he does. I really think he does.”

“Justin, we need to end today’s session.”

“And my diary assignment?”

“Your assignment is to write about that picture you just showed me. Don’t try to think about what you’re going to write ahead of time; just let one thought lead to another. Don’t even lift your pen off the page for five minutes. Set a timer.”

“So, like free form.”

“It can take any form you like just so long as you let your subconscious take over. You might make some very interesting discoveries.”

“I hope they’re _good_ ones. I’m sick of bad shit happening.”

“If it gets upsetting, you can always stop.”

“Okay . . . Rochelle?”

“Yes?”

“Do you think I should show Brian?”

“That’s a choice only you can make, but perhaps you’d like to discuss it with me first.”

“Okay. See you next week.”

“Have a good weekend, Justin.”

_Dear Diary,_

_Okay, I’m just supposed to start writing and not pick my pen off the page which isn’t going to be easy because I have to write with my left hand because my stupid right hand is all fucked up, which I hate by the way, but I guess that’s not a revelation. So, the picture. The first thing I noticed when I saw it is that Brian is laughing. It made me realize that he doesn’t laugh much, well not like he’s laughing in the picture. He looks like he’s having a really good time, which is awesome because he’s with me. I wish I could remember making him smile like that. I know sometimes he feels like I’m a kid and he’s the adult and that he should take care of me, but sometimes I feel like it’s the other way around. He’d totally freak out if he knew I thought this way about him, but the truth is that he can be really fragile sometimes. I feel like I need to be careful what I say around him because he can get really upset really easily. Not that just anyone would notice, but I do. When he goes all quiet, I know something’s up with him. He’s kind of moody – okay, not kind of, he’s totally moody. Sometimes I think it’s him who needs meds, not me. But anyway, I don’t know why I went off on that tangent. Back to the picture. It’s kind of blurry, but I can see I’m smiling. I can’t remember what it’s like to REALLY smile like that anymore. I wonder if I ever will. I feel like when I look at myself that I’m a different person now. Like, that person in the picture is Justin Taylor, and I’m someone else, someone I feel like I don’t know very well. I mean take this sex thing for example. It’s insane! I used to LIVE for having sex with Brian. I couldn’t get enough of it – of him – but now I feel totally freaked out when he even just touches me a little bit. He tries to kiss me and I feel every muscle get tense, and it’s worse when he touches me. I feel like there are electric ants crawling under my skin and I feel this totally irrational fear. Not like he’s going to hurt me, but because life is. Everything I’ve been through. There’s this panic that takes over and all I want is for him to leave me alone. God, I’m so scared! What if he kicks me out? I can’t go back to my mom’s. I don’t know where I’ll go. Maybe Deb would take me back. She’s always been really really good to me, but if I went to her, she’d know something was up with Brian, and she’d think he’s being a dick, when he isn’t. He’s just getting frustrated. I wish I could tell him that all of this is going to pass and I’m going to be okay again, but sometimes it feels like it won’t ever be okay again. And then there’s him. I’ve only spent three nights with him but every one of those nights he’s had bad dreams – they’re so bad that he wakes me up. He won’t talk about it though. He just says he can’t remember what he was dreaming about, but that’s bullshit. I always remember my dreams, especially the nightmares. I feel like I need to know what’s going on in his head. Is he dreaming about me getting bashed? I wish I knew because then maybe I could help him like he’s trying to help me. I would tell him that none of this is his fault and that Chris Hobbs is the only one who’s to blame for what happened even though sometimes I do wonder – well, this picture is making me think that maybe if Brian and I hadn’t danced like that, then maybe I wouldn’t have gotten bashed. I hate that thought because, even though I don’t remember dancing with Brian, I want the thought of it to be sacred. I don’t want to connect it to almost being killed, and I don’t want to think about whether it was a good idea or not that Brian came to my prom. But then again, it was me that asked him, so maybe all of this is MY fault. If I hadn’t asked him, he wouldn’t have come, and I’d be okay right now. Fuck. I can’t believe I just wrote that. I HATE HOBBS! Why should I have to blame my boyfriend because he’s a crazy fuck! Why do I have to blame myself when it’s HIM who’s the psychopath? I mean who does that? Who hits someone in the head with a baseball bat just because that person kissed a person who’s their same sex? Who gives a shit?! How did it hurt him? Fuck, maybe he was jealous or something. Maybe he wanted to dance with me and was mad that Brian did, but then why’d he hit me and not Brian. Oh my God! What if he HAD hit Brian? What if it’d been Brian instead of me who had his skull bashed in? I can’t even imagine it. There’d be blood everywhere and Brian would be on the ground all crumpled up. I can’t imagine Brian like that – like, he’s immortal to me. If he’d been hurt – or God forbid – died! How could I live with that memory in my head? I’d rather be the one who got bashed because all I could do would be to just stand there, feeling totally helpless. Is that how Brian feels, like he can’t do . . . . shit the timer just went off._


End file.
